


And All I Loved, I Loved Alone

by damesansmerci



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Sherlock, Breeding, Child Abandonment, Dirty Talk, Discussion of Abortion, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Eventual Happy Ending, Fingerfucking, First Time, Fluff, Forced Bonding, Kid Fic, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Motherhood, Mpreg, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Porn, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Schmoop, Single Parents, Smut, Soulmates, Teenagers, Teenlock, Top John, Unplanned Pregnancy, seriously dysfunctional relationships, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:30:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 22
Words: 35,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damesansmerci/pseuds/damesansmerci
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the kink meme, where most such things come from:</p><p>Alphas and Omegas are forced to breed by the government. Omega Sherlock goes through his first heat and is bred by a gentle Alpha he doesn't remember. He's pregnant and bonded at a young age and it seems like his Alpha has no intention of finding him afterwards.</p><p>Years later, he runs into John Watson. He seems vaguely familiar, but Sherlock can't place it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Couldn't resist this prompt. But read through the tags please, there's a decent heap of warnings. And yes, I'm crap at titles. EDIT: This was originally "A Memory Saved". Now it's a line pretentiously snitched from an Edgar Allan Poe poem entitled 'Alone'.

Sherlock was 17 when he had his first heat. Older than the others and cleverer as well—old and clever enough to know that the propaganda about true pairings, love at first sight, all that rot, was just propaganda in the end. The reality was simpler:

Alpha and Omega genes were recessive. They ran mostly in the oldest lines in the country, in families who were an incestuous bunch as it was. Without the conservation project, they’d all die out in 50 years.

The ‘conservation project’ was the government’s politically correct way of saying ‘forced breeding’. It involved mating an Alpha or an Omega from one bloodline with a partner carefully selected to avoid cross-breeding and provide healthy, true-gendered offspring. Sherlock privately thought that letting them all die out would be nothing but good riddance and even Mycroft, to his intense surprise, agreed with him.

“We have long since passed the stage where these forced structures do anything but limit us,” he’d told Sherlock, when he was already 16 and still un-presented. “They will tell you that your presentation will not affect your life. But it is a lie and a poor one at that- even children do not believe such rubbish. You had best hope you present an Alpha, brother dear, or else you will find your world to be immensely difficult.”

But Sherlock had already learned that life was never anything but difficult for him. 

\---

It was Mycroft who found him, 8 months later, curled miserably in the garret, his teeth chattering from the cold.

“It hurts,” he told Mycroft accusingly. Even with a relative, his body stirred, noting the Alpha scent with definite interest. Sherlock shied away from Mycroft’s hand as it stroked the curls off his forehead, horrified at himself, and Mycroft quickly snatched it back. 

“I can’t do anything,” he replied, his expression briefly stricken. They both knew that it wasn’t the cramps he was talking about. Mycroft didn’t have the authority to override Sherlock’s fate. At 24, he was plump and useless and Sherlock had never hated him more. 

Mycroft sighed and tucked his hand away, his self-control impeccable as always. 

“I am sorry, baby brother.” 

\---

He fought when they brought him in. Howled threats and clawed at their flesh, until he was strapped to a bed and left there, his chest heaving with the exertion. 

Sherlock stayed there for hours, snapping his hatred at all the Beta and Omega nurses who dared approach him. Finally, they brought in an Alpha doctor. Rare, that. Alphas were not healers, as a rule. They were too aggressive, too careless and egotistical. 

But this one seemed kindly, with huge green eyes and a reassuring smile. 

“Come here, sweetie,” she said. “I won’t hurt you.” She carefully stroked his bare flank and he melted instantly, because she was pretty and kind, even if she wasn’t compatible, and his body was begging him to submit.

She continued to coo over him, stroking and comforting, and he relaxed, nuzzling trustingly into the flat of her palm when she offered it.

It wasn’t until he felt the prick of the needle that he realized just how badly he’d been betrayed. 

\---

When he woke, everything was fragile and water-stained, the sedatives transforming his world into a safe, pastel-shaded place. Still, he wasn’t comfortable--this wasn’t home to him and he twisted frantically in the unfamiliar surroundings. 

He lay on a bed of sorts, his ankle chained to a far bedpost. Soft silk under him, a pile of bedding which he burrowed under. It felt so wonderfully sleek next to his bare skin, all that soft material rubbing up against his tender, engorged flesh. He piled it together and curled up inside, whimpering discontentedly. 

His nest was ready- so where was his Alpha? 

The ache between his legs was fast growing unbearable. He bit into a piece of cloth to muffle his moans as the heat spiked. Fluid dribbled down the backs of his knees, soaking into the sheet under him, but there was no one here, no Alpha with a big, fat cock to satiate him, to take him and breed him. He flipped onto his stomach and spread his legs, slid an inadequate finger into his desperate body. When that was nowhere near enough, he added another and then another, bunching them up into his tight, greedy hole. 

Still not enough. Not full. 

Sherlock whined again through gritted teeth. They’d left him without any of the proper tools for a heat and that was simply cruel. There was no telling how long he’d been here, nor how long they meant to keep him here.

The most terrifying prospect was being left here in his half-mad delirium for the entirety of his heat. Surely not. Omegas of his status were too valuable to risk and there was an absolute certainty that he’d do himself an injury if left here to ride out his heat by himself. Sherlock slipped a pillow under his heavy hips, biting back a groan at the feeling of the soft material cushioning his painfully hard cock. 

He didn’t know how long he lay there, rocking shamelessly against the pillow. Relief was impossible without a nice cock in his arse and after a while he was whimpering openly, wet tears sliding down his face as he thrust madly into the bedding. 

A sound pierced his stupor—the door was opening. His nostrils flared as he took in the heady, unfamiliar scent that immediately permeated the room. Warmth and wool, the sharp tang of antiseptic, a bit of sweet tea and sweat. Alpha.

Compatible Alpha. 

He stilled immediately and whined, a plea as much as it was an invitation. Footsteps edged nearer and the bed sank as a warm body settled in behind him. Small. Female? Stocky, flat, very aroused. Male. 

The man said something, his voice strained and sincere and Sherlock found himself lulled by the gruff, soothing litany and fighting not to give in (something told him he ought to be careful, that Alphas lied and betrayed, but he couldn’t remember why, precisely, it was so important. Not when this Alpha smelled so delicious, sounded so concerned.) 

He squirmed closer despite himself, tilting back so that the Alpha could see his fingers, still buried deep in his arse. The man inhaled sharply. His hand hooked over Sherlock’s ankle, dragging him closer. 

“Can I just--?” he asked, his voice strangled. “Christ, please, let me touch you…” 

“Obviously,” Sherlock said. “Don’t. Be. An idiot.”

His inner Omega cringed at the lack of deference in his voice, but the man, to his surprise, only chuckled weakly.

Blunt fingers traced lightly over the curve of Sherlock’s buttocks, before sinking lower, cradling his full balls in one hand. Sherlock moaned at the sensation of warm skin against his heavy flesh. He felt a flush of shame, that he didn’t have a small, pretty cock like an Omega ought to have. His was almost Beta-sized, not all that tiny, but the Alpha behind him didn’t seem to mind. 

“Look at you, you beauty,” he murmured, his earlier trepidation apparently forgotten at the sight of a leaking, desperate Omega. One hand tugged possessively at Sherlock’s balls, while the other rested on his lower spine, pushing him down into the mattress. 

Sherlock sank obediently on his stomach, rutting against the sheets before he remembered himself and stopped. There was silence behind him and he waited for the Alpha to scold him for taking his own pleasure.

A hand tightened on his thigh. 

“Fucking gorgeous, you know that?” 

It was all so very hazy after that. 

Demanding fingers replaced his, a sleek, experienced tongue tasted him, making him writhe against the bedclothes. Soon, they were curled inside Sherlock’s nest and he gasped as he felt the thick cock finally, finally slide into his waiting body, his eyes screwed tightly shut with the intense pleasure-pain of it. 

The Alpha tucked him possessively against his chest, curling their joined hands against Sherlock’s belly. His weight was welcome and safe over Sherlock’s body, burying him under its needy pressure, and his cock ground out slow, agonizing circles inside Sherlock’s slippery hole. 

He whispered in Sherlock’s ear as they lay there and later he wouldn’t remember whether the man had told him or he’d deduced it.

A soldier, which explained the tang of blood, a doctor too, somewhere in his mid-20s. A soft, common name- steadfast and simple, like the man himself. Sherlock liked that name and he said it many times over the course of the night, screaming it until he was hoarse, pleading and demanding, whispering the soft syllables lovingly against the Alpha’s throat. 

_Breed me, fuck me, John, harder, yes---_

_Jesus, you’re fucking brilliant. Beautiful too, so fucking beautiful, you know that?_

_John, please-, I want--_

_I know exactly what you want. You want my big, fat cock and I’ll fill you up and breed you until my come’s leaking out of you._

_Yes, yes, please--_

_My fucking gorgeous Omega. Say it._

_Yes, yours_

_I’ll mark you and everyone will know your mine. And they’ll be so jealous that you’re mine, only mine_

_Do it, please, please—JOHN_

When he came to, hours, perhaps even days, later, the room was pitch dark. A warm, strong body was pressed against his back and one hand trailed down his chest, exploring the flat, lean planes, the soft fuzz at his navel. 

“How old are you anyways?” the Alpha asked. He sounded stricken and Sherlock gripped his wrist reassuringly. He was aware that the Alpha was waiting for a response and he struggled through his muddled brain in search of one.

“17,” he said finally, lisping a bit on the s. 

“Jesus. And they--? Fuck. You don’t deserve this.” 

Sherlock flipped over at the consternation in his voice, nuzzling reassuringly into his neck. “But you’re mine,” he mumbled and the Alpha groaned and pulled him close. 

“I wish that were true,” he said, before pressing his lips briefly to Sherlock’s hair. "Wish I could keep you.” 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock said, again. He curled his fingers around his Alpha’s back, luxuriating in the strong, toned cords of it. An imbecile, his Alpha. Because, of course, Sherlock was his. Completely and for as long as John would have him. 

The Alpha tightened his grip and Sherlock snuggled in closer, inhaling his sweet, homey scent. He’d tell him as soon as possible, Sherlock decided. In the morning, maybe, when all this was over, he’d tell this man that Sherlock was his, for life or as long as he’d have him. 

If he’d known, he might have said it then. 

Because it would be years before he got the chance again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this is purely a very strange AU and that the characters/government's thoughts on abortion, pregnancy, consent, etc, in no way should be taken to reflect the thoughts of the author. Basically: It's Omega verse. Read the warnings and 'enuff said.

Strangers invaded his room, their sharp, terrifying scents suffocating him. The bed was cold and empty next to him and his eyes searched frantically for his Alpha (he could smell, smell the distinct scent of him, but where was he?) . He snapped angrily at all the Alphas who reached for him, because they weren’t HIS, they weren’t, weren’t…

Mycroft slid into the room, plump and slimy as always. “Ah Sherlock,” he said. “Time to come home, I think.” He looked insufferably pleased with himself as he held out a hand. 

Sherlock whimpered away, aware only that he was naked and vulnerable and that this wasn’t the Alpha he belonged to. 

“Where is he?” he demanded, drawing the bed sheet tightly around his waist. 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Where is who?” he asked and his eyes caught on Sherlock’s bruised neck, his snarling, swollen mouth. His nostrils flared as he caught the changed scent. There was a bit of possessiveness underlying the once-familiar odor of his little brother, a touch of—warning. Almost a threat. 

“Sherlock?” he asked again, concern tingeing his voice. 

Sherlock shook his head, willing the fog away. A flush crept up his cheeks.

“I don’t remember his name,” he said.

Mycroft hesitated. “Well,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll turn up, Sherlock—He wouldn’t have bonded with you if he’d had no intention of returning.”

That was so logical that Sherlock almost dared to hope  
\---

Three weeks later, there was absolutely no sign of him.

According to the records, the man had left hours before Sherlock woke. An extensive search had revealed that the name he’d given at the desk was a false one (not too uncommon, as it was. As long as the gender checked out, no one was too concerned with names. Breeding was breeding, after all.) 

“We could find him,” Mycroft said, when a thorough search of the room turned up only a worn beige jumper (which Sherlock immediately snatched up). “He’s clearly an Alpha-prime. All we’d need is one bit of DNA and we could trace him.”

Sherlock clutched the jumper closer, shaking his head. “No,” he said. “No, you will leave him alone.”

“Sherlock, I’m sure he’d appreciate knowing about—“

“About what?” Sherlock demanded. He looked so young then, holding onto that thick wad of cloth. Barely a baby with a security blanket himself, and Mycroft shook his head.

“Don’t play dumb, Sherlock. It’s perfectly obvious by your scent. If don’t wish to heed my advice on the matter, then at least allow me to find him.”

“He left,” Sherlock said. He buried his nose in the jumper, inhaling one last time before tossing it clear across the room. “He didn’t want me then. Why would he want me now?”

\---

Sherlock considered it. Truly, he did. He stood sideways in front of the mirror, naked save for a pair of loose pajama bottoms, and put a hand over his taut stomach. His face twisted at the idea of something in there that wasn’t him. Just a parasite, at this stage, feeding off of him, eating away at his entire future. 

He slid his fingers further down his navel, pushing slightly, and felt nothing. 

Not mine, he thought. 

Not mine, not mine, not mine. 

\---

Even if it was a part of him, this thing, then it probably wasn’t worth saving. There was precious little about himself that he wanted preserved for future generations—best leave the continuation of the Holmes name to Mycroft, who was just as intelligent as him (not that Sherlock would ever admit it) and who was at least responsible in the bargain. 

The government wouldn’t take kindly to the abortion of a true-gendered embryo. In fact, the act would likely land him in jail for murder, if he were ever found out. But Sherlock had no intention of being found out. There were ways to do such things—and if he played his cards right, no one save his brother would ever even have to know that he’d been pregnant.

He hesitated and wrapped an arm snugly around his belly.

A memory rose, inconvenient and uninvited: Hands locked around his wrists and pinned them to the bed. A mouth worked greedily at his throat, laying brutal claim to his flesh as he gasped and arched under the weight of his Alpha. 

_So good—so gorgeous, love. Tell me you’re mine._

_All of me, everything, yours_

He had no loyalties, surely, to a man that had left him. No promises that had to be kept when the most important promise of all had been broken. He didn’t remember the man’s name or his face, didn’t remember if he’d been handsome or ugly, intelligent or boring. 

Stupidly sentimental, then, to remember being called ‘love’.  
\---

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the sofa. 

“No doubt this will amuse you,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual vitriol. “But I confess that I have no fucking idea.”


	3. Chapter 3

**4 weeks**

 

His scent shifted obviously within days. The barely-there curve of his belly was easily hid under his usual baggy button-downs, but the smell was a dead giveaway. Titters followed him in the hallway, strangers offered congratulations. Alphas who would never have noticed him opened doors and wrestled his books away from him. Sherlock would have liked nothing more than to tell the burly Alpha who brought him a cookie at lunch that his chivalry did nothing to disguise his preference for other Alphas, or to remind his Omega professor that her congratulations meant little when she’d spent the entirety of her career on highly illegal suppressants, but he held his tongue. He couldn’t afford to expose them, not when he had his own secrets. 

So he endured a month of it instead, with his teeth gritted and a fake smile permanently plastered to his face. And then the inevitable questions began. 

\---  
 **8 weeks**

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mummy said, when he showed up on her doorstep like a lost puppy. She dragged him in and let him stagger to the couch, her cool grey eyes taking in his gaunt frame and weary expression. 

She said nothing, however. Just rang for tea and folded herself delicately into the closest armchair, a Victorian monstrosity that Sherlock knew from experience was every bit as uncomfortable as it was elegant. 

“So… you’ve dropped out of Cardiff then?” she asked. The query of a stranger, not a mother. Sherlock refused to meet the questions in her eyes, taking in instead the familiar gloom of his childhood home. Dark and dim, with antiques and memories piled high in every corner. Not the place for a child, any child and yet, what choice did he have?

He cleared his throat. “I have a… request,” he said. 

“If you need money,” she began, “Mycroft will…”

“No,” he said. He tugged at his loose shirt and swallowed back the humiliation. “It’s… not money.”

“Oh,” she said, after a moment. Her expression softened almost imperceptibly. “Well. This is always your home, Sherlock. You must know that.”

He felt the thin prickle of tears and determinedly shook it off.

“Thank you.” 

\---

 

**12 weeks**

“Boy or girl?” the nurse asked, her pen poised over her clipboard. “Hasn’t been noted.” 

He stared at her, blinking wildly as he tried to squash the slight flare of panic in his belly. Focus. Anything

_Just out of school, judging by the age and obscene perkiness. Dyed blonde hair. Engaged and thrilled about it. Beta, then, even with his scent compromised from...Focus. Betas were always happy about such things. Hateful. Why waste time on sentimental nonsense like that when one had the enviable option of free will? Idiots._

He ducked his head as he calmed, his arm wrapping instinctively about the slight bulge of his belly. “I don’t know,” he said, bracing himself for the inevitable barrage of questions.

“Oh, your Alpha can’t tell?” she asked. “Happens, sometimes. The scent’s off and it can be hard to pinpoint—“

“I don’t have an Alpha,” Sherlock interrupted.There was a long, awkward pause and really, he should have left it alone. Not drawn attention to the obvious lack, particularly when the last thing he wanted was sympathy. 

“Oh my god,” she whispered, reaching for his arm. “I didn’t realize…I’m so, so sorry. ” 

It was easier not to correct the assumption. 

\---  
 **16 weeks**

“You’ve lost weight,” Mycroft said. 

“That makes one of us, then.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked over the small packet under Mycroft’s arm and then flicked determinedly away. “Here to offer advice? Oh, but you can’t. You’ve never been pregnant and never will be.”

“It’s hardly my fault I’m an Alpha, Sherlock.”

“Here to gloat then?” Sherlock challenged. Pregnancy, Mycroft reflected, had certainly not improved his temper. 

“This is my home as well,” Mycroft pointed out. “Even if you have decided to convert it into your personal nesting grounds. Speaking of which… where’s Mummy? Isn’t she taking care of you?”

Sherlock shrugged and glared at the pavement, still stubbornly refusing to look at what Mycroft was carrying. 

“I don't need to be _taken care_ of. And haven't seen her since this morning. You know her: Probably cleared out at the first sign of nausea.” Which wasn’t exactly fair of him, though, admittedly, it had its element of truth. Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, suddenly looking tired. He indeed smelled faintly of vomit and Mycroft wrinkled his nose, even as he felt a small flare of concern. 

Sherlock was still his younger brother. Still an Omega. 

“I should be going anyways,” he said, after it became obvious that the Omega in question was not about to invite him in. Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around his belly and it took Mycroft a second to realize that he was preventing himself from reaching out. 

Mycroft pursed his lips. “You are… Should I send you someone to help?” 

“Why are you really here?” Sherlock asked. “Don't pretend it's for me. You despise the very idea of pregnancy. It probably affronts every bone in your massive, complacent body.” 

Mycroft knew better than retort. Sherlock was spoiling for a fight after just two months at home, probably with very little to do. Best not to encourage him. Best not to pretend they didn’t both know what he wanted either. 

Mycroft silently offered him the dirty, beige bundle, doing his best to pretend that it was an afterthought. Sherlock looked at it disdainfully. But his hand reached out automatically, betraying his eagerness, and snatched it up. 

He let out a tiny, inadvertent sigh of relief as he cradled the jumper against his chest. 

“What do you expect me to do with this?” he asked, as if he’d just realized what he was doing. He swallowed. “Cry over it like some love-sick, hormonal teenager?” 

Mycroft barely restrained himself from coming up with the obvious rejoinder. “If you wish. At the very least, sleep with it.”

Sherlock looked up sharply. “You’re not really serious.”

“I am.” Mycroft sighed at the incensed look on his face and held up a hand. “I am aware that the simple absence of an Alpha will not in and of itself cause a miscarriage. If it did, then the breeding program would never have been implemented.”

“So why give it to me?” Sherlock demanded, his pale eyes narrowing.

Mycroft wanted to say it. But one misstep and Sherlock would destroy it. In the end, he merely shrugged. 

“Keep it. Burn it. It does not matter to me, Sherlock. But it is, for all intents and purposes, yours.”

“I’ll burn it then,” Sherlock said. 

“It’ll be good for the baby,” Mycroft offered delicately. “Pheromones.”

It was a weak justification and they both knew it. But Sherlock’s eyes were very blue and very bright and his hands curled gratefully into the thick wool.

“Yes,” he said. “For the baby. Obviously.”  
\---


	4. Chapter 4

**20 weeks**

Mycroft had taken to _visiting_ , of all the loathsome hobbies. Sherlock was quite vocal about his opinion on that, but it seemed that the larger his stomach got, the less inclined anyone was to take him seriously. 

“It's a little odd,” Mummy admitted, when Mycroft announced his intention of dropping by yet again. “Perhaps he just wants to make sure you have an Alpha about.”

“It’s _Mycroft_ ,” Sherlock snapped. “It's more likely he's discovered another torture technique that requires refinement.”

Mummy smiled faintly. “Chocolate biscuits for tea then,” she said. “He likes those.” She said it in the slightly guilty tone of one hoping that their admittedly random guess had passed scrutiny. 

“Hates them,” Sherlock said. "Try lemon. He's not _that_ allergic."

…….

Mycroft was the one who clicked smoothly into place in their childhood home. He didn't try to sprawl across the unyielding furniture in a desperate bid for comfort or slam the heavy antique doors to make a point. The house was ancient. Suffocating. And while it rejected Sherlock, Mycroft, Sherlock reflected sourly, probably suited it down to the ground.

“I could find you a mate,” the twat offered, his back irreproachably straight in the Victorian chair. “One who was willing to overlook the complications of your—“ he let his eyes linger over Sherlock’s rounded stomach—“delicate condition.”

He'd certainly thought Mycroft might suggest it, at one point. And then he'd dismissed the idea, partly because he'd assumed even Mycroft would see the unlikelihood of him acquiescing to such a suggestion and partly because the mere thought made him feel as if the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. And even then, he'd thought... far in the future perhaps. Not _now_.

“You bastard,” he hissed. And Mycroft had clearly anticipated the response, because his look said he was impatient with Sherlock's irrationality, angry, even, but not surprised. 

“I’m not going to belong to some bull-headed Alpha who’s either too stupid or too dazed by money to be bothered by the fact that I’m heavily pregnant with another man’s child."

Mycroft's face said he'd had just about enough. Sherlock resisted the urge to shy away from him-- Despite the effort he invested in being a cold fish, Mycroft could have a nasty temper when someone dared to question him. These days, with his new government position, 'someone' almost invariably meant Sherlock. 

"I wouldn't say 'stupid' or 'greedy'. I would say 'open-minded', perhaps," Mycroft said now, his voice not quite as even as he'd no doubt have liked it. 

"I don't fucking care what you would say," Sherlock snarled. "The fact remains..." 

"Oh yes, do tell me Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted. "What is the fact? Is it that you're a brat who appreciates nothing--"

"What I don't appreciate is you yelling in my ear--"

"Or is it that you're enamored with a man who likely cares nothing for you and certainly cared nothing for your unborn CHILD?" 

Sherlock flinched. "Don't say that," he mumbled, after a moment. "It can hear by now, you know." 

"Oh for heavens' sakes..." 

"You really shouldn't upset him so, dear," Mummy interjected. "He's not completely himself." Sherlock flushed at the subtle rebuke as she swept gracefully into the living room. "Though eventually, Sherlock," she added. "You'll have to stop referring to it as 'it'."

"It's a bit early," Mycroft protested. "I would think that--"

"Don't be silly now, he's at 20 weeks," Mummy dismissed. "And he had his ultrasound, didn't you?"

Sherlock plucked at an embroidered cushion and scowled, not trusting himself to speak, lest something else foolish slip out. 

“Boy,” he grudgingly admitted, once he'd successfully recovered both his voice and his petulance. It seemed churlish by then to mention that the ultrasound had been two weeks ago.

“Sherrinford,” she said, with a pointed twirl of her index finger. She paused mid-spin and favored Mycroft with a bland smile when he offered her his seat. “I was going to name you Sherrinford, once.” 

“I’ve always felt that Theobald was a good name,” Mycroft offered smoothly, indulging her as always. “Theobald Holmes. Majestic, almost.”

“Rutherford, perhaps.”

“Archibald.”

“Siger.” 

“NO,” Sherlock snapped.  
\---

**24 weeks**

The previous occupant of this room had clearly died, according to the folding of his sheets and the nurse's left shoe. Sherlock turned away and stared up at the brilliantly white ceiling, trying to ignore the throbbing in his right arm. 

“May I ask how you ended up here?” Mycoft’s voice was low and dangerous. And he so rarely asked obvious questions. 

“I miscalculated,” Sherlock said flatly. “And I’m perfectly fine, but the doctor insists upon being absurd and keeping me here for another day.”

“The doctor is worried, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped. “About the state of your offspring. As you should have been worried, before you decided to be completely reckless and experiment with toxic compounds-“ 

“White phosphorous isn’t a compound, it’s an element,” Sherlock said dismissively, trying (and failing) to flap one heavily wrapped limb. “And why do you care? You’ve nothing invested in this.”

“I—“ Mycroft was at a loss, another very rare occurrence. “I am merely concerned for your well-being,” he said finally, his voice having regained its customary touch of ice. “I should not like to have to deal with the mess of your emotional state should something happen to-”

“Touching,” Sherlock spat. “Did you memorize that? You can pretend to care all you like in front of Mummy, but I know you. I know exactly how much you care, Mycroft. After all, we’re the same, aren’t we?”

“No,” Mycroft said flatly. “We are not the same, Sherlock.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Oh really? Why? You’d have taken care of the baby, is that it? Refused to succumb to boredom because of your superior self-control, I suppose. Easy enough when you can’t become pregnant, I’d imagine…”

“I would never have chosen to keep it in the first place,” Mycroft cut in, brutally. “I cannot understand to this day why you did. Sentiment, I presume.” _A defect_ , he didn’t say. 

Sherlock startled, his arms immediately rising defensively about his belly. It was getting to be a habit with him, an instinct to wrap himself around his child at the first hint of upset. It was difficult for Mycroft to stay mad at him when he became like that. Even on the suppressants, his Alpha nature screamed to protect, to comfort this thin young creature who was so clearly carrying a child. Not his, but a child all the same, one that smelled like his own blood. 

“Don’t,” was all he said. He took a deep breath. “Don’t you dare…”

“Oh please, Sherlock,” Mycroft said dismissively. “Let us not pretend that you’re any more attached than I am. You couldn’t be bothered to think up a name for the damn thing…”

“I did,” Sherlock interrupted. 

“Oh really?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said defiantly. “I did.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. The fact remains that you did not and I believe, do not, have any connection to the child itself. You're keeping it for entirely selfish reasons.”

Sherlock snorted. But he didn’t deny it.

“Why then?” Mycroft asked, genuinely curious. “Why keep it at all?”

Sherlock glowered and turned away, curling up around his belly. “It’s hardly relevant.” 

“Sherlock?”

Mycroft sighed and turned away. He was almost at the door when Sherlock finally spoke, his voice flat and queerly expressionless.

“I thought,” he said softly. “That there should be a little more of him in this world."

Mycroft paused, his hand on the door. "Why?" 

"Sentiment, perhaps."

\---

**28 weeks**

Sherlock hadn’t actually woken up crying. Perhaps he had. His pillow was damp underneath him and he felt hot and so very exhausted. It wouldn’t be the first time sleep had eluded him . Not that he’d slept much, before, but now he was constantly tired. And bored. So very, very, mind-numbingly bored. 

The boredom, he was certain, would kill him well before he gave birth. That is, if Mycroft didn't smother him in over-protectiveness first. His brother had kept up the aura of apathy for a while now, but Sherlock knew better. Knew his instincts demanded that he protect as much as was in his power (which was far too much these days) even if he didn't particularly care for the infant in question.

Sherlock prodded his round, bulbous belly. "I hope you realize that you're a disaster," he said. He meant it to sound cross, but it came out frustratingly despondent. 

There was a tumbling inside his womb, what might even have been a vicious jab and Sherlock sat up, his lank hair flopping into his face. “You’re really in there then,” he blurted out. And immediately felt foolish. “I don’t usually state the obvious,” he clarified, and only succeeding in feeling more embarrassed when his voice echoed in the empty room. But there was another slight movement. Perhaps a punch. 

He raised his shirt up around his armpits and ran a hand down the smooth, tight globe of his belly, his eyes widening at the gentle response.

“They say,” he said, feeling vaguely foolish. “That babies can hear their mother’s voices outside the womb. If you aren’t a complete imbecile then perhaps you recognize….me. Do you know who I am?” 

Another soft jab. Sherlock swallowed. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, I'm here.” He eased himself back against the pillow and stroked his belly soothingly, from the dark line of his pubic hair to just under his swollen breast tissue. In the dark, hazy from lack of sleep, it was all too easy to pretend that the hands weren’t his own. There was someone who ought to be here, who was not. He couldn't resist imagining a blonde head resting against his stomach, turning to press a kiss onto his bare skin, the allure of strong hands following every kick and every murmur.

_"He'll be as gorgeous as you, you know. Clever, too._

_I would rather that he was like you_

_I'm pretty damn ordinary, love_

_Yes. But I believe... I believe I would love him more, if he was like you._

_Don't be silly. You'll love him anyways._

_Obviously. But you see, if he was truly like you...he might even love me_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone that takes the time to comment: thank you. Comments make my day. And you think I'm joking, but I'm really not.


	5. Chapter 5

**32 weeks**

“Fuck. Fuck. _FUCK_.”

“Do mind your language, Sherlock,” Mummy said blandly. She carefully turned a page in her book. “And they’re merely contractions—you have weeks yet.” 

“I am well aware I’m not actually in labor,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. Several months with his mother was something that he had hoped never to have to endure after he left for Cardiff. There was nothing particularly wrong with Mummy and never had been. Unlike Mycroft, she wasn’t insulting or over-bearing. And yet… ever since the incident with Father and the (also Alpha) gardener, she’d managed to make her neglect nearly tangible in it’s brutal efficiency. They’d had the best of nannies and boarding schools. But she’d never felt the need to mother her children or even, really, acknowledge their presence until they became adults. 

Nurturing one’s young--an instinct that the government assured them was an innate part of every Omega. And his own mother lacked it completely. 

It terrified Sherlock no end.

“You haven’t touched the room I set aside for the baby,” she said now and there was a hint of something fragile underneath the apathy. “Haven’t you felt any urge to nest?”

“I…” Sherlock trailed off, unsure for once. He cleared this throat. No point in delaying. “I do believe I’ll take the baby and move out… afterwards.” 

Mummy’s thin shoulders tensed, but she didn’t look up from her book. “I see,” she said, finally. “But you’ll hardly be able to support him now,” she added almost immediately. “You don’t have an Alpha.”

Sherlock winced. “Don’t need one.” 

“Or a job…”

“I’ll find one.”

“Hmm.” Mummy didn’t look convinced. “Perhaps,” she said delicately, “You might stay a few months. Just until you get yourself on your feet-“

“I can’t,” Sherlock cut in coldly. “I will not stay—“ He looked at her rigid shoulders and took a deep breath. “Mummy,” he said, leaning forwards as much as his inflated belly allowed. “Mother. I need…” _To get the hell out of this hateful torture chamber_ “I need to leave,” he said, suddenly fretful. “I dislike the cloying smell of perfume, the ancient furniture, the heavy doors and the awful, awful…” he trailed off. 

“What?” she demanded, raising her head. “What now, Sherlock?”

 _Memories_. The awful memories, of a lonely childhood and an awkward, depressing adolescence, now combined with the boredom and heartache of the last few months.

It would hurt Mummy to hear it and, while there was little that Sherlock held sacred in this world, that was the one thing that both he and Mycroft agreed upon. Never upset Mummy. But Sherlock was feeling sulky and he was not, really, a good person, so he very nearly said it anyways. 

“It would be better for the child,” she said, luckily interrupting his train of thoughts. “He would have a stable place to grow up. He wouldn’t be shunted from ramshackle flat, to ramshackle flat—“

“I can take care of my son,” Sherlock said furiously. “And I will.”

“So you say. Do you have any idea of the responsibility involved?”

“No. Do you?” Her mouth dropped open and he felt a vicious satisfaction. But it took her barely a second to recover. She sighed and gazed sadly at him, her eyes shockingly familiar under her white fringe. 

“And…” she said softly. “You could finish your schooling.”

“I don’t need to go back…”

“Cambridge. Imagine, Sherlock,” she said, her voice quietly tempting. “The finest of laboratories, the most excellent teachers and brilliant students, nearly as brilliant as you. You wouldn’t be bored.”

Sherlock froze. “I can’t… I can’t think of that. Not now.”

“Of course you can, dear.” She leaned forwards, something almost like triumph flashing in her eyes. “You always wanted that, didn’t you? You could read chemistry and enjoy uni and be… Be as you were. ”

“My baby…” 

“Would be happy. You would be able to see him anytime and he’d have everything a proper Holmes should. A select education, the best teachers for sports and music… You can’t give him all that, Sherlock.”

He hated how easy it sounded. Just… hated it. 

“What would he think?” Sherlock asked, casting his eyes downwards. “He’d think… He’d think his mother left him.” He didn’t bother curbing the accusatory edge to his voice. “He’d feel abandoned.”

“We’d tell him you’re his brother,” Mummy said, too quickly for someone who hadn’t thought this through. “And I… Give me a chance, Sherlock. I do regret… But he’s my grandson too. And it’s really for the best, isn’t it?”

Sherlock refused to meet her eyes. “Perhaps.”

“You know it is. You can’t afford to be selfish, Sherlock. He’s… he’s your child.” She paused. And then, because Mycroft hadn’t learned his manipulative powers in a vacuum, she said cajolingly: “And think of your Alpha. You say you love him… Wouldn’t he want his son to have the very best? Be everything you are?” 

_Jesus, you’re fucking brilliant. Beautiful too_

Sherlock shook his head.

But he didn’t say no.  
\---

**37 weeks**

“I can’t… I can’t do this,” Sherlock gasped. The nurse by his side held out her hand and he grasped it. Her hand was warm and dry… grounding. He hissed as another bolt of pain shot through his body.

“Come on, hold on,” she said gently. “You’re not anywhere near dilated enough yet…

“Is that meant to be comforting?” Sherlock growled, his eyes narrowing. “Your bedside manner leaves much to be desired.” 

“Well, you’re not dying yet,” she sad dryly. It was on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue to say something (something about her dyed-red-hair-desperate-desire-for-children-unhappy-Omega-wife).

The idea, satisfying as it was, was lost in the wake of another contraction. He gasped, throwing back his head, and her little hand squeezed his own.

“How bloody _long_ can this last?” It was a rhetorical question. He knew the answer. But the pretty little nurse answered anyways.

“6-12 hours,” she said, her voice infuriatingly calm. “You’re barely at 5 cm, so you’ve got a bit to go. Do you need anything?”

“I would like a less unprofessional nurse and, oh yes, my dignity back.” Sherlock glared at his raised, strapped legs. He could only imagine how he must look and the picture was hardly a pretty one.

The nurse followed his gaze and grinned. “You look beautiful, sweetie. A bit pained and uncomfortable, but other than that…” 

“Fuck you,” he spat. 

She eyed him appraisingly. “Sorry, I’m taken. And from one baby-incubator to another, that’s illegal.”

At that, his eyes blinked frantically open. “You’re an Omega too. There's always something…URGH.”

\---

“You all right?”

“Is this contraption strictly necessary?”

“No, of course not, we just like embarrassing you.”

“Was that an attempt at humor? I don’t think you’re funny.” 

“I don’t know, I thought it was rather clever… Oh. Hell. Shh now, don’t push.”

“’Don’t push’? You really expect me to fight over 56 million years of evolution? 

“Right, that… I’m calling the OB.”

“Oh, I knew I saw the spark of genius in you.”  
…….. 

The contractions were terrifyingly painful. He wanted… he wanted an epidural, he wanted everything and anything to stop this and he was blabbing, he knew it… 

The red-haired nurse’s hand would soon match her hair with how hard he was squeezing it. “Why so terrified, sweetie?” she asked. There were others in the room, others who seemed more interested in what was happening between his legs than in the panic on his face, but all he saw was her. “Focus on me, that’s it… Now. What are you so scared of?”

Everything. Nothing. The future and the present and the crippling contraction that shot through his entire body, making him gasp. 

“You’re okay,” she said softly. She leaned over and swept a hand over his sweaty forehead, bathing him in the sweet, comforting scent of her. And he noticed that her eyes were blue, such a dark blue and her hair was so red, but those eyes…She would understand, if he told her. 

“What do you need?” she asked again. He tightened his grip and she winced.

“My Alpha,” he said, urgently “Where is he? Call him. He’d want…Tell him he has to come. Tell him.” 

Her mouth pursed in a desperately unhappy line. “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I am. If I knew who he was…”

“His name…” Sherlock clenched his eyes shut. “I don’t remember. I don’t…”

“Shhh… Quiet, love.”

Her eyes were so very blue.

“It’ll be all right.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Would you like to hold him?” Sherlock blinked blearily. He’d fallen asleep at some point, or perhaps he’d simply been too dazed to realize when they’d cleaned him up and (thank God) unstrapped his legs. 

He remembered a wailing and reaching out, but…

“Is he all right?” Sherlock demanded instantly. “They said… with a slightly early birth..”

The nurse (male, Beta, unmarried) chuckled, a blue bundle held securely in his arms. “He’s fine. He wasn’t that early really… And I’d say he’s a fighter. He’s already giving the nurses hell…”

Right on cue, the bundle began wailing again. Sherlock reached out automatically for his baby.

“All right, careful now…” The nurse arranged him carefully in Sherlock’s arms and Sherlock pulled him in close, cradling the small body against his chest with hands that suddenly felt too-large and clumsy. 

“He’s still crying… I don’t…” Sherlock began frantically. But at the sound of his voice, the little bundle immediately quieted. 

“You…” he looked down and swallowed. “Yes. I’m here.”

The baby gurgled appreciatively and Sherlock stared at him, open-mouthed. Dark-brown hair (not blonde, not black) and sharp, delicate features that were undeniably like his own. He felt a little flutter of disappointment, but it was quickly over-shadowed by the…. Awe. He wanted to say love, but that wasn’t quite the…

The newborn flicked open his eyes and Sherlock took in a sharp breath. Blue. A sweeping, comforting blue, so unlike the silvery fish-scale translucence of his own. The boy blinked slowly and Sherlock watched, rapt with attention, before leaning in to scent his child.

His. Every instinct screamed his. And there was a little of his Alpha too, the comforting odor of him, all layered over the distinct, milky newborn smell. Eventually, the baby would develop his own, unique scent. But he’d always smell just a little bit like Sherlock. A little bit like his father. 

“Very touching,” a familiar, posh voice drawled from the corner. Sherlock startled, immediately tightening his grip on the newborn.

“Go away, Mycroft.”

Mycroft tut-ted. “I’m here to see my nephew, Sherlock. Surely you wouldn’t deny me that?”

“I said, go away.” Sherlock glared at him, telling him in no-uncertain terms that he most definitely would. 

“You’re being foolish, Sherlock... In fact, considering your little arrangement with Mummy, I should say you’d better let go of him sooner rather than later.”

"No,” Sherlock’s face was stricken. “It's none of your business, you fat, arrogant--"

“Is it not?” Mycroft cut in. “And you should consider for once what is better for someone other than yourself.”

“Have you come in here just to harass me?” Sherlock snapped. “I’ve just given birth, Mycroft, which I assure you is more than you’ve accomplished in your entire life. So if you would, kindly….LEAVE.”

The boy whimpered and they both instantly turned to his scrunched up face.

“Oh,” Mycroft breathed. “He even… he looks like a Holmes.”

“I need to feed him,” Sherlock said flatly. He could feel the heaviness in his breasts, the slightest wetness where his nipples stuck uncomfortably to his hospital gown. 

“You should… you should go.” 

“I will. I assure you, I have little desire to see you feed the thing.”

“That _thing_ has a NAME,” Sherlock snapped. “And is also your nephew, though the latter is no fault of mine.” 

Mycroft snorted in disbelief. “Ah yes, I did hear about that name…Sherlock, really? A touch absurd, is it not?’

“I fail to see your point,” Sherlock said icily. 

Mycroft sighed. “The false name that Alpha of yours gave at the breeding station? You’d name your child that? Why, it might be anything… he might have made it up or seen it in a magazine moments before or come up with the name of a distant relative…”

“You know very well that’s not true,” Sherlock interrupted. “It’s a real name, most certainly. And for someone attempting to remain undetected, it’s rather a foolish name to use… It’s unique to a particular region and unusual enough to incite comment. No, that name meant something to him, Mycroft. And besides,” Sherlock added, turning back to his infant. “He likes it. Don’t you, Hamish?”

The baby gurgled again and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“He’ll be just as difficult as you then, I presume,” he said with a sigh. 

“I certainly hope so,” Sherlock murmured. His eyes were glued back on his son and he barely heard the door shut quietly as Mycroft departed. 

“Hamish,” he said again. He bent and brushed the baby’s tiny nose with his own and was rewarded with what might have been a small smile. His. 

“Hello, you disaster.”  
\---

“Hello, Mr. Holmes,” a brash, female voice called. 

Mycroft paused abruptly in front of the hospital’s staff-only back door and turned to see a petite, red-haired woman slumped against the wall. She held a cigarette in one hand and, despite her youth, her face was weary and her eyes bloodshot. 

“Ah yes. Pleasure to see you again,” he said. His voice indicated that it was anything but. 

She snorted and took a long drag on her cigarette. “I doubt that, somehow.”

Mycroft raised an immaculate eyebrow. “I may not be enamored with your visage, my dear, but rest assured that I am grateful for your cooperation. You will be adequately compensated…”

She blew a great, curling cloud of smoke into his face, sudden rage wrapping her pretty features. “You bastard,” she said, her voice shaking. “Do you have any idea…I could have cried. He’s just a child, Holmes. He’s a child and he’s terrified and alone and he needs…” 

“I am perfectly aware,” Mycroft cut in. “But do you think it would make it easier on him, knowing the truth?” 

Her lip trembled. “No, but--Oh god. He’s so in love, it breaks my heart. I don’t understand…I’ve never seen a bond like it, not unless it was after years and years of marriage. How…?”

Mycroft turned deliberately away. 

“Thank you for your services,” he said icily. “I am sure that your pheromones made the entire birth much easier for my brother. Do not think I am ungrateful.”

She took a step towards him, suddenly looking frantic. “Now wait, you promised…”

“You will have the marriage papers by tomorrow,” Mycroft said smoothly. “As Omega to Omega marriage is punishable by life incarceration, however, I have taken the liberty of changing you to an Alpha in all documentation. It should be an easy pretense, considering your already low hormone production."

"I...." the woman nodded. "Thank you. I just.. there were rumors, after she miscarried, and I was so, so terrified they'd take her away. Try to breed her out again."

"I know." Mycroft paused, letting the silence sink in. "But you do know what would happen if you were to let your involvement in the delicate matter of my brother slip out…?”

“But… you’ll tell him eventually, won’t you?” she asked. She stabbed out her cigarette and twisted her blunt fingers guiltily. “You tell him that.. that John, if he knew, he’d be here and say fuck all to the consequences. Not that a bloody cold bastard like you would understand, but if he were to hear-- ”

“Ah, but he won’t, will he?”

She buried her face in her hands. “God, he’s never going to forgive me. I wouldn't forgive me, dammit.”

“That is your own concern, I’m afraid. Good _day_ , Miss Watson.”  
\---


	7. Chapter 7

In the end, he didn't see what other option he had, even though he wondered, in his more despondent moods, if he could even bear to be separated from Hamish. Hamish, who was tiny and quiet and wide-eyed, with clutching little hands and soft lips that permanently protruded in a miniature moue.

“Your Alpha must be a quiet man indeed,” Mummy mused. Or, as Mycroft put it: “I’m rather inclined to have DNA testing done. Because you, my dear brother, were born whining about the world and you haven’t stopped since.” 

But Hamish was silent. He slept fretfully, clinging to Sherlock’s chest, fussed when he was hungry, but never cried. 

“Is this normal?” Sherlock asked after a week, of no one in particular. He lay on the couch, too tired to move, one leg drooping limply off of the side. Not sleeping because sleeping was boring was one thing, but a baby was entirely another and he was very near to collapsing from exhaustion. He closed his eyes and curled an arm protectively around Hamish, who’d fallen asleep against his chest. 

“You shouldn’t sleep like that with him,” Mycroft said reprovingly, turning a page casually in his newspaper. “It’s not healthy.” 

“Yes and _you’re_ not the one he wakes up every time he’s left in his cot for longer than 10 minutes,” Sherlock muttered drowsily. 

“You always cried when you were put in your cot too,” Mummy said, glancing at Mycroft. “Your nanny used to say she had such a time of it. Which reminds me: Sherlock, we must get a nanny. I know a nice Omega girl, down by-“

“No,” Sherlock bit off. Hamish stirred at the sound and Sherlock rubbed his back soothingly. “Not while I’m here,” he said softly. 

Mummy smiled a little wistfully at the picture they made, Sherlock with his thin body and gangly limbs and Hamish, sweetly tucked into his chest. “It’ll be better, in the long run,” she said gently . “Weaning him gradually. It wouldn’t be fair to him to switch suddenly from having you all the time.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. But it was suddenly quite clear where Hamish had inherited his perpetual pout. 

“Perhaps I shouldn’t go,” he said, after a moment. “If Hamish is to dumped in the lap of some unfortunate nanny…” He hesitated. “Perhaps I could bring him…?”

This wasn’t the first time Sherlock had brought up a variant of this idea. It wasn’t even the fifth. 

Still, Mycroft probably shouldn’t have snorted so loudly. 

“To uni? Don’t be absurd, Sherlock.” His gaze softened. “It’ll be better for him to grow up in a stable household,” he said carefully. “And there’s no need to be dramatic--you’ll see him as often as you like. It’s barely three hours by train.”

“He’ll think he’s not _mine_.” Sherlock said fiercely. “And yes, now I’m three hours away. What of in another few years? After all, I would hardly want him to think of me the way I think of _you._ ” 

“And I suppose you have a better option?” Mycroft asked, ignoring the slight, save for a practiced pursing of his lips. “You’ll bring him up in some filthy gutter in the middle of nowhere? You don’t have single pound saved nor do you have the qualifications to go about earning a proper living. That’s no way to raise a child, Sherlock.” 

“Well, you did say…” Sherlock bit his lip, considering. “My Alpha. You said you could find him.” 

“Well, that’s not really possible, is it? Even if you did find him, no Alpha would stay at home with a pup while his Omega was in uni,” Mummy pointed out. “And yours hasn’t even cared enough to find you…”

“Busy, perhaps…”

“For 9 months, dear? Do be reasonable.” 

“I would suggest,” Mycroft cut in smoothly, “That you disabuse yourself of such a notion. In fact it might be best if… if you let the matter of your Alpha rest entirely.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Let it rest? Why—Oh. You _know_ something, don’t you?” He tried to sit up and then thought better of it. “I might have known. What do you know? Tell me.” 

“You were the one who asked me not to track him.”

“Which you did anyways and without my permission. And now I am asking you to _tell_ me.” 

Mycroft paused. “Of course I know nothing,” he said, enunciating slowly. “It is merely my opinion that it is for the best if you leave matters be.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “He doesn’t want us?” 

“Sherlock, I told you…”

“He doesn’t want us, does he?” Sherlock demanded. “Tell me the truth, Mycroft. Or…” Horror passed across his face. “He’s dead. Is he dead?”

“SHERLOCK,” Mycroft exploded. “I know absolutely nothing-”

He was interrupted by a soft snuffle that quickly turned into a whine.

“Oh well done, Mycroft, you’ve woken the baby.”

“You’re letting your emotions get the better of your judgment,” Mycroft remarked, as Sherlock patted Hamish until he quieted again. “I was the one who offered to find him in the first place and you refused me.“

“Forgive me for doubting your commitment to respecting my wishes,” Sherlock said, voice dripping with sarcasm. He carefully raised himself up and swung his feet off of the sofa.

Mycroft shrugged. “It still doesn’t change the fact that I should have no reason not to tell you if I had found him. Unless, of course, I wished to spare you…”

“Spare me?” Sherlock’s voice hit a note that Mycroft would not have believed it capable of. “Spare me—spare me what?”

Mycroft sighed and leaned forwards. “I could soften this, but I will not: Your Alpha is not coming home, Sherlock. I am sorry. 

“You’re lying,” Sherlock said immediately. He looked away, as if suddenly fascinated by the detailing on the couch. “I’d know. I’d feel it, if something had happened…”

“You may draw your own conclusions, then.” 

“I will, you overgrown, pompous…Oh. I was right then, wasn’t?” Sherlock looked up dully. “He doesn’t want…Of course. I should have known.”

“Many Alphas bond irresponsibly in heat and then find that the idea of a family is more overwhelming then they’d anti—“

“Shut up.” Sherlock rose carefully from the couch, hitching up Hamish in his arms. “I don’t require your pity. Either of yours,” he added to his silent mother.

Mummy simply crossed her ankles, her eyes following her youngest son as he shut the door rather more forcefully than necessary behind him. She waited for the soft thump of footsteps heading upstairs before turning to Mycroft, who looked distinctly ruffled. 

“Now,” she said delicately. “Perhaps you might tell me the truth.” 

\---


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise enough sweetness and sex to give you cavities at the end, but it's going to be a bit of ride until then. Hang in there, if you will. And lots of characters you might (or might not) recognize coming up for a bit.

Sherlock leaned his head against the train window and clutched his shoulder bag to his stomach. Irrational though it was, the pressure made him feel less bereft, a feeling that he was doing his absolute best not to analyze. 

“Is anyone sitting here?”

A deep, feminine voice cut through his thoughts. The girl eyed him carefully, light brown ringlets flopping artistically into her face. Faded denim shorts, sleeveless, tucked in blouse— fashionably undone, two words that were forever an oxymoron to Sherlock. 

And yet: the scuffed heels really were old, the hair wasn’t so much artistic as hurried. Less wealthy then she’d like to be, cleverer than she thought she was and not even half as nice as the rest of world would like to believe. 

She cleared her throat. 

“If you must, then sit. But don’t talk. I have no desire to learn your name and I distinctly doubt you’ll wish to keep company with me beyond this ride.”

Her mouth fell open and then rearranged itself into a pretty scowl. 

Only child. Probably used to getting her own way and being liked. 

Tough. 

Sherlock ignored her and leaned his head against his window, staring at the blandly green countryside and conscious of equally green eyes watching him. 

“You’re very rude,” she said finally. 

“Do you always state the obvious?” 

“Are you always this rude?”

“Are you always this annoying?”

She blew out a sigh and sat back, looking cross. “Fine. Then I suppose I don’t want to talk to you either.” 

“Good. Incidentally, very mature of you.” 

He turned to look at her (a mistake, in retrospect), just as anger flashed across her heart-shaped face. “And I suppose you think you’re very grown-up, is that it? Because you’re…” she pursed her lips and waved a hand. “Bonded? You think that makes you an adult?”

“I guarantee I am more of an ‘adult’ then you,” Sherlock said coldly. She seemed so young, all of a sudden. So utterly useless and filled with trivial concerns and needs and wants and he felt a sudden, inexplicable surge of anger. 

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that her biggest concern was twisting her hair into perfect curls, while his insides felt ripped open and hollow with grief. Wasn't fair that she'd be away and miss home and he'd be away and feel as if he was missing half his heart. 

She was angry and it all seemed so unbearably tedious and his shirt stuck wetly to his chest, but he couldn't think about that...

“Why then?” she snapped, because she observed nothing, least of all slight discolorations in his clothing and his contemptible wave of self-pity. “You Omegas think the world revolves around babies and bonding and you can’t even talk like a human being to a Beta. Because what? I don’t have a cock to stick up your stupid arse?”

“Ah, at least you’re as sexist as you are annoying.”

“Sexist?” she asked, her voice dripping with scorn. “I’m a Beta. There’s nothing more sexist than hearing about the godly Alphas and Omegas day after day… As if you lot are something special, because you fuck like rabbits once every three months--” 

“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry,” Sherlock spat, furious with the unfairness of it all. “Having control of your body must be just frightful. What is it like not being viewed as a fuck-toy by Alphas and a breeding machine by everyone else? Not being a freak of nature? Go on, tell me. I wouldn't know.” 

That silenced her. 

“Your mouth is open again,” Sherlock muttered, after a long, humiliating minute. 

To his surprise, she snapped it shut, still looking mildly horrified. Well, if it kept her quiet, he wasn’t about to complain. Silence stretched awkwardly over the compartment and he turned back to the lush green of the countryside, his cheeks still flushed with his outburst. 

“Look, I…”

The pity was making his skin crawl so badly he wanted to claw it off. Shove it in her awful, sympathetic face and watch her squeak with the horror of flesh, torn and bloody, so that she’d have any, ANY other expression--

Nothing for it, then. 

“The answer is no,” he said flatly. “I'm neither flattered nor interested.” 

Sure enough, that provoked a resurgence of (admittedly deserved) outrage. “You think I fancy you?” she demanded. “You’re _bonded_ , I'm not a fucking sadist--"

"Masochist."

"You know, where the hell is your Alpha anyways? Don’t tell me, did you scare him off too? I pity the sorry idiot who got saddled with you." 

Sherlock cringed and curled up in the corner. “Shut up,” he mumbled and then wanted to cringe again at how truly pathetic he sounded. 

So pathetic, apparently, that she was regretting her words for the second time. Indecisive _pest_. She'd realize she hated him eventually and the sooner she did, the faster he could wallow peacefully in his misery. 

“Shit, I didn’t… You’re such an awful twat, you know that?” she said, the frustration in her voice nearly tangible. “I don’t even know—“ 

“One favor,” he interrupted, his voice acerbic. “Just one. SHUT. UP.” 

They passed the rest of the ride in blessed silence. 

\---

His new flat mate was tall and thin with a mop of curly, reddish hair and a long, elegant nose. His clothes said wealthy, his left wrist said lazy, but clever. His bottom lip said nervous disposition, the back of his trousers said polite to a fault and his socks and shoelaces said chronically late. Sherlock didn’t hate him. Not yet.

“Victor Trevor,” he offered, after scrambling (unsuccessfully) to wrestle Sherlock’s bag away from him. “I could, um…”

“No.”

“Okay then. Um, would you like to…?”

Sherlock hurried into his room and slammed the door shut on the rest of the sentence, his arm crossed defensively across his chest. He dumped his luggage on the floor and peeled off his t-shirt, wincing as he surveyed the damage in the mirror. He was sore and leaking and he smelled thickly of lactation. He rubbed a finger across one swollen, dark nipple and watched as the white fluid welled and tear-dropped down his bare stomach. 

Such an awful waste. 

A fresh strip of cloth then, tied tightly about his chest—not that it did much (and risked infection besides), but, at the very least, combined with a dark shirt, it kept the visible evidence down to a minimum. There was a knock on the outside door just as he finished tying it, biting his lip at the slide of thick material across his sensitive flesh. 

“Hello. Is your flat mate here?” an unfortunately familiar voice asked from outside his door. “Tall bloke, awfully skinny. Bit moody. “

Both Victor and the girl jumped when the door crashed open. “What do you want?” Sherlock demanded. “Haven’t you done enough for the day?”

The floppy-haired Beta from the train stared back at him from the doorway, looking suddenly nervous. 

“Listen,” she began. “I was thinking…”

“I sincerely doubt you’re capable of that.”

Victor looked desperately uncomfortable at this fresh bit of rudeness. “Perhaps we….?” He trailed off, unable to find anything sufficiently compelling to insert into the question. 

The girl ignored him in favor of glowering at Sherlock. “Oh hush up. I was going to say, I’m sorry. I don’t fancy Omegas anyways, but you know, if you felt…well…” 

“I wasn’t uncomfortable, if that’s what you’re implying,” he said acidly, stepping deliberately into her personal space and forcing her over the door’s threshold. “I am, contrary to popular opinion, perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Now kindly take your narrow-minded misconceptions somewhere else and stop wasting my time.” 

“No, I didn’t mean- God, you’re really a mess, aren’t you?” She let out all her breath and thrust her hands in his face. “Look, that came out wrong. I wanted to apologize for all the things I said about Omegas and just—to apologize. That’s all. I was rude and you being a prick doesn’t justify…No, okay. I was rude and—and-- ”

“Apology accepted,” Sherlock cut in. “You may leave, though if you wish to blather anymore, I’m sure Victor would be happy to sympathize with you. Good bye.”

“Wait, no—“ she shoved a skinny shoulder into the door, preventing it from closing, and held out a hand.

“Violet,” she said, rather breathlessly, her hair now fully in her face. 

Sherlock groaned. “No.”

“If we’re going to fight,” she continued. “I’d rather do it on a first name basis. Make it official.” 

He stared down at the offered limb.

“Who says we’ll fight?” he asked slowly.

“I do,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m smart, even though you don’t think I am. I say things before I think about them. And you’re impossible. So we’ll fight. Might as well do it properly.” 

“Miss—“

“Hunter. But really, call me Violet. Everyone does. Or… Vi.”

“I will most certainly not be calling you ‘Vi”, ” Sherlock said disdainfully. He looked again at the hand now waving somewhere in the region of his collarbone. “And I’m not going to be rid of you until I shake your hand, am I?”

She looked grimly satisfied. “Now you’re getting the idea.” 

“Very well then.” Sherlock grimaced and grasped her fingers delicately, as if afraid it might pass on a contagious disease. “Violet. I trust that is all. Now. If you would consider leaving…?”

“But…”

He slammed the door in her face and counted… 3...2...1...

Sure enough, there was a pounding on the door. He wrenched it open and Violet nearly fell over in her surprise. 

“He died,” Sherlock said casually, after giving her a moment to brace herself on the doorframe. Her eyes widened. “What?”

He flicked his eyes over her tense form and sighed. 

“You’re not actually here to apologize. Not entirely. Nor were you here to introduce yourself: you didn’t even ask for my name. No, you were curious—about what? Judging by our limited conversation, your lack of observational ability, and my obvious scent, there’s really only one possibility: You want to know what a bonded Omega is doing at university. So, I’m telling you: My Alpha. Is dead.”

“Oh fuck,” she swore, real regret crossing her face for the first time. “Oh fuck, I’m so, so sorry…”

He opened the door and waved pointedly at the hallway. “If we’re quite finished, then?” Violet pressed a hand to her mouth and backed away. 

“I…” Victor started helplessly, after the door had slammed shut behind her with a satisfying thud. 

“Don’t,” Sherlock warned. 

Victor sighed. “I was just going to say…I could use a smoke. How about a smoke?”

Sherlock stared at him. 

“Well, it's not as if you have anything better to do, is it?”


	9. Chapter 9

_---

Victor would have been brilliant, if he’d bothered to care. But he didn’t care, not the least bit. Instead, he was kind and lazy and spent hours at a time smoking blissfully in their tight, stinky little room. He kept the windows open, because he was polite, for a nicotine-addicted 18-year-old, but the truth was, Sherlock didn’t care either. He’d never smoked seriously, nothing more than the odd pilfered cigarette, but it soon became comfortable to lie down next to Victor and steal his cigarettes. Companionable. 

Sherlock talked to the ceiling and Victor listened as he spun off gossip about their classmates and professors: who was sleeping with whom, who cheated on exams and who took drugs, who lied and who stole, everything and anything that was not about him. He’d worried at first that Victor would notice the gap, but if he did, he never said anything. 

“What do you think of Seb?” Victor said one evening, out of the blue interrupting a long rant on Dr. Doyle, the anatomy professor who was quite clearly adjusting the grades. He and Sherlock had taken one look at each other and it had been hate at first sight, a fact which his chronic inaccuracy and Sherlock’s need to correct him had hardly done anything to mitigate

“Seb? Sebastian Wilkes?” Sherlock frowned. “ I don’t think of him at all. Why?”

“Nothing, just asking,” Victor said, shaking his head. “He was asking about you and I thought… well, never mind.”

“Horrid, pompous excuse for an Alpha,” Sherlock informed him. “Dating that equally horrid Omega… Natalie? Norma?”

“Norah,” Victor said, blowing a cloud at their rapidly graying ceiling. There was a fine layer of ash over everything in the flat by now. 

"And really," he continued, dead-pan."“They’re all like that, I’ve heard. Fucking Alphas, mate.”

Sherlock flipped onto his side and snorted. “You’re an Alpha.”

“Fucking Alphas,” Victor repeated, grinning slightly back at him. “I’ve heard everyone wants to. ‘Cept you, of course.” 

“Shut up,” Sherlock said irately. He knew Victor was teasing. He’d never asked about Sherlock’s bond until now, never mentioned that Sherlock was an Omega and Sherlock wanted desperately to keep it that way. Victor seemed to sense it, for he backed off immediately. 

“Oh fine then. But you should consider... Well.” He blew another puff straight into Sherlock’s face. “Sorry. But how about Violet?”

“Vio-?” Sherlock narrowed his watering eyes. “Boring,” he huffed. 

“I don’t know. I think she likes you.”

“Considering that she’s currently not speaking to me, I doubt it,” Sherlock said dryly. “Or should I say, she’s currently not speaking to me AGAIN.” 

“I realized it was true love when she screeched at you for getting inappropriately familiar with that Bunsen burner,” Victor said reminiscently. “I’ll never forget the delectable smell of burning wool—“

“Cashmere, if one is being precise.” 

“And of course, one ought to always be precise… WHY are you two lab partners again?”

Sherlock shrugged. “She’s not completely unintelligent. And there’s something to be said for stress outlets.” 

“For you and her, maybe. The rest of us get high blood pressure just from entering that lab.” 

"Idiots,” Sherlock declared, reaching over Victor for another cigarette. "All they think about is sex and drinking, so it's not entirely surprising that a chemistry experiment would make them anxious." Still, he had to admit, there was something empowering about talking about sex with such flippancy. About pretending, for a moment, that he was so very far above such trivial, human matters. 

“I was thinking more of the yelling. Oh, fine. Hmm. Gloria.”

Sherlock shuddered. “Beta, shallow, self-centered and terribly, terribly dull. Next.”

Victor paused thoughtfully.

“Seb.”

“Please, the cigarettes are already making me nauseous enough.”  
\---

“You coming?” It was a Friday and Sherlock was lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling. 

“Mostly likely not,” Sherlock informed the dark, suspicious stain over his head. 

“Oh, come on, you don’t even know where we’re going!”

Sherlock lifted his head and took in Victor’s self-consciously slicked hair, dark denim. “Drinking,” he decided and flopped back onto the bed.

Victor deflated. “Oh, fine then,” he sighed. “Can’t even go out on a bender like a normal bloke, can you?”

“You do know Gloria is shagging Sebastian, do you not?” Sherlock asked absently. “Meaning that simply bringing me along to make yourself look both taller and less socially awkward will not help your chances.”

Victor considered. “No, don’t tell me… Lipstick?”

“Red, cherry—last week it was more—“ Sherlock waved his hand in the air, frowning. “Salmon. Bright pink blush too, heavy foundation, that's new too. But it was really the shoes, of course. Always heels and then flats, why flats? Because she’s tall and he’s insecure. And the aftershave.”

“Dammit. Thought I had it that time.” 

“You try too hard to pinpoint one fact,” Sherlock said dismissively. “It leaves you open to false assumptions- you must consider everything.”

“But it sounds more impressive,” Victor pointed out. “And you ought to come. Violet will be there.”

“Oh?” Sherlock said, already bored. “Violet ,is it?” 

“She fancies you.”

“No she doesn’t, as you very well know. Oh- Of course. You simply want me to confirm that she does not.”

Victor spun around and smiled hopefully. “So she doesn’t then?”

“Beta, not so very dull and, I'm given to understand, not altogether unattractive either. No history of violent crime, addiction to deadly vices or extreme sexual proclivities that I can deduce, but frankly a bit _yappy_ ,” Sherlock said, distaste seeping into his voice on the last word. “You should be very happy together. Your children will be very productive, very tedious little workers.”

“Like little worker bees?”

“No, bees are interesting.” 

"And children definitely aren't."

"I..." Sherlock turned his back on Victor and curled up into a petulant ball. "I'm not going. You may leave." 

“You're absolutely sure...?” Victor asked half-heartedly. 

“Spare me,” Sherlock sniffed. He waited until Victor left, whistling happily, and then flipped onto his stomach to reach for the phone.

“Hello?” 

“Put the phone next to Hamish,” Sherlock said crisply. 

“Oh, Sherlock dear! How ar--“

“I do not have time for your drivel. Now, my son, if you would.”

He heard a long-suffering sigh. “It’s completely silly that you insist on doing this— a recording would suffice, if you really wanted…”

“He likes it,” Sherlock said icily. "And I can give it to him." 

Enough of a justification for the moment. It was an argument Mummy would never win and she, unlike Mycroft, knew when there was no point in fighting against even the most irrational sentiments. Sherlock pulled the violin case out from under his bed and lovingly picked the precious possession from the softly lined velvet, just as fretful whine came through the phone.

Sherlock played. He played like he did every night he was able, rare though they admittedly were. Tonight, it was Brahms and Schubert and something else, something soft and sweet and easy, something of his own, until the muffled snuffling quieted and then eventually faded altogether. And then he repeated it. He was loath to stop, just in case Hamish woke again (or so he told himself) and so he played until his arms tired and the air was suffocating and then he dropped the violin down, realizing, suddenly, that the phone had gone dead a long time ago. Sherlock closed his eyes. 

“Sweet dreams, disaster.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you all for the amazing support and comments. You keep me going and I love you for it. I'm making an effort to go back through and answer as many comments as I can, but it might take a while, so no promises!


	10. Chapter 10

It was closer to Christmas than Sherlock would have liked to admit. He didn’t count off the days or eagerly anticipate the break: wanting, pining, would only make it worse. He couldn’t do this if he wasn’t numb and so he became numb. None of it mattered and that was better, far better, than the tears that had run during his first heat… after. It had been barely 2 months into classes and he’d stumbled out of his forensics lecture, delirious and frantic, and found a black car waiting for him. A luxurious hotel then and a thick dildo that he’d forced into his own arse, cheeks wet with tears, body trembling with need. 

“Where were you?” Victor hadn’t asked when he stumbled home three days later. He’d merely gotten up and offered Sherlock a glass of water. Victor never asked. It was the best thing about him. Still, Sherlock hadn’t missed how thin the ring of brown around his pupils had become or the dull flush of arousal on his neck. It was hateful, that his body could do that, even to his—only—friend. 

Victor had been kind and controlled, but not everyone was. Male Omegas were rare, prized even and he'd lost track of the number of times Alphas had tried to lay a claim, even when he was well out of heat. It was only a few weeks later that a deceptively small female Alpha nosed into the back of his neck during lab. He stiffened, one hand still clutched around his beaker, as she growled happily and ran a possessive arm about his wrist.

“Hey, keep your creepy hands off of my lab partner,” Violet said, glowering. “He’s enough of a liability as is, don’t need you distracting him.” 

Still, her hands curled around a glass vial of her own and Sherlock could see all too clearly where that was about to come crashing down if the petite Alpha didn’t heed her warning. She needn’t have worried. The girl took one sniff and backed off, her hands rigid in front of her chest. 

“You’re bonded,” she hissed and Sherlock felt a swell of misplaced pride that his Alpha was strong enough, possessive enough, to send a potential suitor scattering, even a year later. 

“Your Alpha must’ve really loved you,” Violet said. Impulsively but curiously, like she always was when Sherlock's past was mentioned. Sherlock simply adjusted his shirt and turned back to his experiment. Perhaps. Or perhaps he’d been a jealous, philandering bastard who had wished to ruin Sherlock for every mate thereafter with no intention of reciprocation. Or…

“It’s quite possible he didn’t know his own strength,” Mycroft offered on the phone, later, apropos of nothing. “There would be hardly any reason to claim an Omega he’d just met, particularly if he had no intention of staying.” Particularly if that Omega was _you_ , Mycroft seemed to be insinuating.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” Sherlock said venomously. “And it seems I will be spending my evening smashing every camera around this campus.”  
\---

Christmas did come, eventually. Sherlock barely heard Victor invite him over before he left the dorm or felt Violet's awkward good-bye hug when the train reached her station. He was home and Sussex was exactly the same, cold and wet and this year, perfect. 

He nearly ran to the doorstep of the Holmes mansion, as ridiculously grandiose and starkly undecorated as ever, and then stopped, his heart pounding. Four months. Four months without his son and early snowflakes swirled and melted in his hair and his hands shook. He didn’t know if he could just waltz back in, didn’t know if he wanted to. 

The door swung open before he could so much as knock and a surprisingly familiar face answered.

“He’s in the nursery,” the woman said without preamble. “And he’s been whining all day, I could swear he knew you were coming.”

“That’s… ridiculous,” Sherlock said. But he hurried past her and upstairs to where the cot was full of what appeared, at first glance, to be a bundle of blankets. No. Bright blue eyes peeked out of a chubby face and a full little mouth opened, clearly distraught, as Hamish kicked fretfully at the pile. He stopped as Sherlock entered and leaned over the cot, pausing just long enough to examine Sherlock’s entranced face, before tugging beseechingly at a blanket.

“He’s hot,” Sherlock said witheringly, as neat footsteps sounded behind him “Look at him, the temperature in this room is astounding…”

“Sorry,” she said dryly, leaning on the doorframe. “I don’t speak baby, wasn’t part of my training. ”

“It’s common sense,” Sherlock informed her. “Not that I’d expect you to know, you’re not even a real nurse.”

“What--?” she tensed defensively,. 

“Oh, don’t be silly. It’s perfectly obvious that you only have basic training, far too basic for a nurse. And I assume they thought an Omega would calm me, so you’re what… An assistant? An EMT? Or simply a nanny?” 

She relaxed a little. “Well, I’m a nanny now. But they often bring in Omegas during difficult births. Calms the mothers. You know,” she added speculatively. “Most of them are younger than you.”

“Of course. I was… late.” 

He reached in and plucked up Hamish, who looked at him with startled blue eyes. There was a slight, horrifying second where Sherlock was afraid he’d start crying in earnest. But then a chubby hand went out and grabbed at his hair, tugging gleefully, and Sherlock chuckled with relief.

“He likes me,” he said softly. 

“Well and why wouldn’t he? You smell right to him… In fact, you smell like you’re part of him.”

“Oh…” Sherlock gently untangled a hand and kissed the knuckles. 

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” she said softly. He turned, Hamish still cradled against his chest, to find her watching him with sad eyes. “It’s a shame you can’t be here. I mean, your mother’s here, sort of, and so am I, but it’s not the same, is it? Though don’t get me wrong, I love him too."

"Love him? You're his nanny and you haven't been here long, looking at your shoes. Don't be absurd," Sherlock said disdainfully. Jealousy dripped obviously from his tongue and he bit back the rest of the rant. 

She shrugged, a little defiantly. "I do. He reminds me… Reminds of someone I used to know.” 

“Who?” .

“Oh,” she hesitated. “Someone I loved. My brother, actually.” 

“He’s not…” Of course, he wouldn't be. Silly to think and yet...

“No he's not,” she said quickly. “I mean, he IS an Alpha. But never been in the breeding program. You know how it is, there’s like 3 Alphas for every Omega, so they get that choice and he said he’d never be able to live with himself if he… well. He’s got a bit of a thing for female Betas, anyways and…” She trailed off again, as her eyes grew suspiciously wet. “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just… haven’t seen him in a while.” 

Sherlock swallowed and eyed the coppery tang of her faded hair, the roots peeking through. 

“The blonde would be an improvement,” he said suddenly. “It would make your features look less… harsh, somehow.” 

She laughed a little. “Thanks. I prefer not to see it though. I look like my mother when I’m blonde and that’s not really… me.” 

Sherlock nodded. “You never told me your name.”

“Oh. Er… Harry.” 

"Harry?" he asked dubiously.

She lifted her chin and met his eyes challengingly. "Harriet is my mother. I"m just Harry."

“Harry, if you like then. I….Thank you.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually shocked at how all over the map the reactions to this story have been. In a good way, it's always an adventure reading the comments! So warning: this might get slightly worse before it gets better. But it will assuredly get better and hopefully I can clear up some character motivations for you. 
> 
> And lots of love to the 99% of you that leave supportive, constructive comments, this story wouldn't be getting written without you.

The house was quiet this Christmas. It had been years since Siger Holmes had packed the house with his rambling circle of acquaintances (or friends, if one was willing to stretch the definition of the word). And the family too, of course: there would always be the family, the uncles and the aunts and more cousins than anyone knew what to do with. But those awful parties had dwindled after Siger moved out. The Holmes family had never cared much for each other and when the last of the cousins married (or died, they’d never been a particularly healthy bunch either) the fragile connection was more than done for. 

This year, there was only Grand-mere, Mummy’s own mother, with her fast, cynical tongue and ready criticism. 

“Oh Sherlock,” Grand-mere said, when he finally wandered in, and even Mycroft winced. Grand-mere’s attention was never a good thing, particularly when it was offered in that tone. 

“Pregnant and single, I never saw the like,” she tut-ted, sure enough. “No proper Holmes would stand for such a thing.” 

“Well, things are a little difficult now,” Mycroft said smoothly, his foot crashing squarely onto Sherlock’s before he could so much as scowl at her. “With the new conservation project, bonding can be hard. Even if the—“ he coughed delicately—“Breeding takes, it doesn’t guarantee a bond.” 

“Don’t be absurd, child,” she interrupted. “I’m old, but I’m not senile yet. He IS bonded, with that smell on him.” Her sharp, pale eyes locked onto Sherlock. “So where is your Alpha then?” 

“If I knew…” Sherlock began testily. 

She stabbed a fork vigorously in his direction. “You should know. If it’s any proper bond, you should be able to find him from anywhere.” 

“No one bonds like that anymore,” Mummy said, in her quiet, distant way. “Bonds like that... soul bonds… they did away with them after WWII.” 

“And for good reason,” Mycroft added pompously. 

“Nonsense,” Grandmere huffed. “The only proper way to bond. The things you have nowadays are just pale imitations of the real thing. Why, if you’d agreed soul-bond, my dear Violette, Siger could never have left—“

“Or our bond might never have taken in the first place. There are dangers associated with such things,” Mummy said, her eyes showing just the tiniest hint of fight. “What kind of person would ask for that? What kind of person would agree? And the risk, if something should happen to one half—“ 

“Are we going to keep talking in cryptic sentences?” Sherlock drawled, bored. “Or are we simply going to ramble on evasively about some silly, fantastical story about souls bonding.” 

“Sherlock, that’s basic history.” Mycroft looked thoroughly scandalized. “Even you can’t have deleted soul-bonds.”

“Clearly, I did.” 

“Might have your Alpha if you hadn’t,” Grand-mere told him coldly. “If any of you insolent children bothered to pay attention…”

Sherlock shoved his seat away from the table, silencing her rant. “This is entirely irrelevant,” he announced. “I can neither find my Alpha nor do I have any desire to do so.” 

“And where do you think you’re going?” Mycroft demanded. “We’ve hardly gotten through the first course.”

“No worries, I’m sure you can find space in your endless stomach for my share,” Sherlock answered promptly. His grin, when it flashed across face, had teeth. “And please don’t fool yourselves. I’m not here for any of you.”

“You're so very rude, child, I don't understand…” 

“Oh, let him go,” Mummy interrupted suddenly. Grand-mere stared at her in surprise and she shrugged, focusing her empty gaze on her plate. “He’s too tense here," she added belatedly. There was another awkward pause. 

Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, Sherlock, you’re hardly adding anything to the conversation, you might as well—“

The door crashed shut. 

\---

 

It was nearly an hour later that he heard the inevitable footsteps behind him--delicate with all the experience of a practiced nanny. 

“What are you thinking of?” Harry asked, leaning on the cot with him. Her long hair glittered copper in the dim light and he realized she must have dyed it again. A pity, really. He turned his gaze back to his sleeping son. 

“Nothing.” 

“Clearly something.” 

Sherlock was silent for a long moment. 

“Go on.” 

The words burst unexpectedly out of his mouth, as if they'd been sitting there, waiting patiently for him to acknowledge them. “How many times can I do this, Harry?"

"Do what?"

_How many times am I supposed to say goodbye?_

“Sherlock?” Harry laid a warm hand on his elbow. He looked at it for a moment, but realized, to his surprise, that he felt no inclination to shrug her off. Her touch was oddly…comforting. 

“I can’t do this,” he told her flatly. “Maybe this time. But not the next and the next after that.” 

“Then don’t,” she said immediately. Sherlock turned to look at her, his eyes narrowed. 

“Do you honestly believe that if I had any choice, Hamish would still be here?” he asked disbelievingly. “Surely you’re not that dull, Harry.” 

“You always, always have a choice,” she insisted. “Always. Don’t ever start telling yourself you don’t, sweetie, because the moment you do, then you won’t have it anymore.” 

“It’s easy to say,” Sherlock dismissed. “I can’t just take him…”

“Why not?” Harry asked sharply. She tugged at him until he looked at her, his eyes boring into hers. “Look, I asked you once and I’m asking you again: What are you so afraid of, sweetie?” 

_Everything. That hasn’t changed._

“I won’t be able to give him anything. I won’t be able to give him a proper education or musical training or perhaps even a proper roof over his head, don’t you see?”

“You’re smart, you’ll figure it out,” Harry argued. “You’ll do something.”

Sherlock turned on her, his eyes cold and set. “And if I don’t? What then? If something happens and I can’t… He deserves better than that.”

“No, what he deserves is his mother,” Harry retorted. Her own eyes were suspiciously bright. “That’s all any child deserves, Sherlock. And don’t think he’s going to thank you for it. He won’t, even with all his fancy gifts.”

“Its just rhetoric,” Sherlock said. “It’s sentiment, but it’s not rational, Harry. You’re not rational. It’s not going to work out simply because I will it.”

“It might.”

“But that’s a risk I can no longer afford to take.” 

Harry sighed. “All right. But… don’t do this. Don’t give up, please. You’ll find a way, I know you will. Just… find it, Sherlock. You’d think, with all their money, they could help you—“

“I won’t accept their charity,” Sherlock interrupted. “And they won’t. Mycroft doesn’t trust me and Mummy wants another chance.”

“That’s fucked up.”

Sherlock’s lips curled nastily upwards. “Not any more than deciding to keep a child without any means, any support and all in the name of a man who clearly never cared for you at all.”

“You don’t know he didn’t…” Harry began.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s done. What I have now is my son.” Hamish stirred and Sherlock automatically reached in. One fat hand curled sleepily around his finger. Harry bit her lip. 

“I have to go. I have… I promised someone I’d be there for their call.” 

Sherlock nodded and she hesitated. “I… Happy Christmas, sweetie.”

He tilted his head back as she leaned in, her intention all too clear in the dip of her head. “I appreciate the sentiment, but…” 

Harry grinned and stilled him with one hand across his cheek, so that she could press a chaste kiss to the side of his mouth. “That’s… that’s a kiss by proxy,” she explained, slightly awkwardly. “Because I know, if your Alpha were here… He’d give you that. He’d want you to have someone at Christmas. Even if it’s just a friend.” 

Sherlock snorted. “I highly doubt you know what my Alpha would want.”

“Mmmm, I don’t know…” Harry teasingly chased his lips and Sherlock ducked, so that she ended up kissing him on the side of his head instead. Her hand tightened briefly on his shoulder when he rose, his cheeks flushed. 

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes.”  
\---


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *warning* mentions of abuse here, though it never gets very graphic.
> 
> Next chapter should be out very soon, as in like the next three days. Sorry for the long delay-- My laptop decided to be all glitchy and then the charger died on me. And I'm abroad, so finding one wasn't exactly a picnic! And love to all of you as always, you're fantastic.

Won’t you be cold?” Mummy asked him, yet again. “It’s snowing outside and that old coat of yours is getting so worn.”

The blue wool coat that hung off of Sherlock's shoulder might have been best described as something closer to 'ratty' than 'worn'. But here, inside the front hallway, it was warm for the first time that Sherlock could remember. For Hamish, of course, and while Sherlock supposed he ought to have been grateful for the attention to detail, he almost resented it. It was difficult not feel that every bit of detail not overlooked was a subtle slight on his own parenting abilities. 

Utterly irrational, but standing here, with his heartbreakingly quiet son tucked in his arms, rationality seemed to have taken on a whole new meaning. At nearly 8 months, Hamish didn't so much as whimper. All of the Holmeses had been early talkers ('And never stopped talking after", Siger used to say) but Hamish was deathly quiet, as he'd always been. 

"Do you know that infants understand object permanence after five months?" Sherlock asked abruptly. "Do you know what that means?" 

No one said anything. Mummy merely looked resigned, but Harriet looked bewildered..

"It means," Sherlock explained slowly, his gaze fixed on Hamish's bright, curious one. "That he knows that just because he cannot observe something, it does not wink out of being. He is aware, for instance, that when I am not with him, I still exist." 

There was dead silence.

"Harriet, go fetch him something to wear under that coat," Mummy murmured. Harriet nodded briefly.

"Sherlock..." she began, as soon as the door slammed shut.

"I do not need either your counsel or your justifications," Sherlock said, the words coming out more sharply than he intended. It did occur to him, briefly, that the sharpness was directed more at himself than at Mummy by this point, but he quickly dismissed the thought.

"Ah. You're still blaming me, then. After all I've done, for you and Hamish..." 

“I refuse to have this conversation with you,” he said tightly. “I simply… One moment.” 

Mummy hesitated and then patted his arm awkwardly. "I know it's hard." 

"You always left," Sherlock said and oh, that edge had turned so very bitter. 

"What, dear?"

"How would you know?" Sherlock asked slowly. He looked up and caught her eyes (his eyes, with their grey and blue and green, but her eyes first, translucent and depthless). "You always left."

Mummy's gaze darted away, but Sherlock was feeling too cruel to let it rest at that. "What was, it _mother_? Were we too boring? Too time-consuming? Could you simply not be bothered? Or was it that we reminded you of---"

"Will this do?" Harriet interrupted, far too brightly for someone who hadn't heard the tail end of that conversation. She handed Sherlock a familiar, thick jumper. 

“Found it in the closet,” she explained, when Mummy turned to eye it suspiciously. “Dunno whose it is and it’s a bit big—“

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said impatiently. He let her drape it haphazardly around his shoulders. Mummy straightened, her expression familiarly blank once more. 

“You’ll miss your train, dear,” she rebuked quietly. 

“And I suppose I’m meant to care about such trivialities.”

“It wouldn’t hurt, certainly.” 

Sherlock ignored her, his hand slipping up to cradle the back of his son’s head. “How am I to be certain he’s all right? He can’t talk, he can’t tell me…”

“He’ll be fine,” Harry said firmly. "He has his grandmother."

Sherlock snorted. "And he has me,” she added. She reached for Hamish, who went to her without a fuss. But his bottom lip shook slightly and his eyes remained on Sherlock's face. Sherlock bit his own lower lip and nodded.

"Fine." 

“It’ll be summer soon enough,” Mummy mused encouragingly, apparently fully recovered. Not surprising. Like every little argument (excluding the continuous feuding between Mycroft and himself), this too would be swept neatly under the covers, half-concluded. “You’ll come home then, won’t you?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock kissed Hamish lightly on his downy head and the lip tremble grew far more pronounced. A hand reached for him and Sherlock grasped it with a small cry and leaned forwards, until his lips brushed Hamish's ear. 

“Don’t _not_ cry,” he whispered fiercely. “You cannot cry or else your mother—Or else I will cry as well. And we’re far too good for that, aren’t we?” 

There was absolutely no chance that Hamish could understand him. But he didn’t cry, even then. He never had. Born a Holmes and yet Sherlock fancied that there was something far too understanding in his eyes, even now, for him to be just Sherlock’s.

Harry watched him with a remarkably similar expression. “Go,” she urged. “It’s not going to get easier.”

“Your train, dear,” Mummy reminded him yet again. Sherlock began backing away, his eyes still fixed on Harry. 

“If I call—“

“I’ll give him the phone.” 

“If he cries—“ 

“Then I’ll call.”

“If anything, anything happens and I can’t answer--“

“I’ll leave you 30 messages and be on a train to Cambridge before you can blink,” Harry said easily. “Now. GO.”

Sherlock didn’t so much go as run. 

 

\---  
(5 weeks later)

“You’re doing it WRONG,” Violet hissed, for the third time that afternoon. “3 mL of .10 M HCL.”

“This IS 3ml of .10M HCL—“

“That’s what you said the last two times, too. And it’s STILL NaOH.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t make such an amateur mistake.” 

“You haven’t even _read_ the bloody lab,” Violet shot back. 

“Problem?” Sherlock asked, his eyes turning into slits in his annoyance. “I’m perfectly capable of such a basic procedure—“

“If you were even using the right chemicals,” Violet finished. She brandished a bottle at him and Sherlock glanced at it briefly, frowning. 

“THIS is the HCL, you fool.”

“Oh,” he said slowly. “ I suppose it is.”

“You’re so fucking slow today, genius, I don’t know why I put up with you—“

“Violet,” Sherlock said abruptly. “Enough.”

“What?” Violet stared at him. “Are you actually upset? You know I’m not-“

“No. Just—Not today.”

Violet was silent, her eyes flicking quickly over Sherlock’s set face. She might well be surprised: Sherlock was never upset, not _really_. It was part of their understanding, because while he and Violet had never lived up to the promise of being great enemies, they certainly never lost a chance to indulge in slightly vicious banter. 

What was the fun without an archenemy anyways?

But now he efficiently stripped off his goggles and apron and dumped both in the hands of his startled lab partner. “Leaving,” he said curtly. 

“What--?”

“I don’t feel well,” he said. “Don’t follow me.” 

Several curious stares followed his flight, but no one stopped him, not even the thoroughly bewildered looking lab instructor. No one was about to stop an Omega from leaving a class. Heats weren’t always so kind as to be on time and the possible (probable) consequences of detaining a student entering oestrus were far too awful to risk. 

He’d barely rounded the corner before he heard the determined tap of footsteps behind him. It had always been a rather futile hope that Violet would leave him alone for any length of time. Sherlock ducked into a toilet (that had fortuitously decided to put in an appearance at his side) just as she rounded the corner.

“Sherlock—? The hell Sherlock, are you okay?” 

If his head hadn’t been pounding, no doubt he’d have had a few very choice words for annoying, interfering people who refused to leave him alone. Then again, if his head hadn’t been pounding, he wouldn’t have been in the toilet to begin with. And at the very least, he ought to have noticed that he wasn’t alone before the stall door clanged open. 

The boy that stepped out was tall and strongly built, though Sherlock could already see the slight thickness around his mid-section from too many beers. His eyes were wide and dilated and his hands shook so very slightly as he straightened, wiping quickly at his nose.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said and flashed him a dazzling smile.

“Sebastian,” Sherlock managed. He looked up at the slightly taller boy and swayed. A hand automatically reached out a hand to steady him, but Sherlock snatched himself away and curled against the wall, his hands crossed defensively across his chest. 

Sebastian Wilkes’ smile still didn’t reach his eyes, but he tucked his hand carefully back into his pocket. “Something’s off about you, buddy.” 

“Oh, very clever. And here I just assumed you were an idiot.” 

“Well, they did say you were unfriendly,” Sebastian said complacently. He leaned forwards and there was something suddenly predatory about the way he cupped a hand around Sherlock’s shoulder and sniffed his neck. Sherlock pushed him away. 

“Control yourself.” He frowned at Seb’s leer. “That is, if you’re even capable of it: I believe willpower is considered a higher brain function.”

Seb straightened, his handsome features wrapping nastily. “Oh, I wouldn’t say I’m really the one without control now, would you?” He ran a careful finger down Sherlock’s arm, blazing a warm line of contact over the thin T-shirt, and Sherlock flinched. 

“Best run off then, before you really start to smell like a bitch in heat.”

“Best wipe your nose before someone figures out what you do with your breaks,” Sherlock said, grinning insincerely back. “Oh. Too late.” 

Seb flinched. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“And I suppose that’s talcum powder rimming your nose? Please.” 

Seb tightened his grip on Sherlock’s elbow, his eyes cold with fury. “Clever trick there, buddy, but you’re wrong.” 

“I’m _not_.” Sherlock wriggled his arm experimentally. “Let go.”

“If I don’t?”

Sebastian was stronger than him by far and his ham-like hand was clenched far too tightly to entertain the possibility of running. Well, there were always options.

Sherlock pivoted and spat squarely in Sebastian’s face. 

\---

Victor found him not too long later, curled determinedly under every blanket in the flat. 

“A locked door generally implies that you are unwelcome,” Sherlock informed him, his voice muffled. 

Victor sighed. “You stole my sheets. Look, Sherlock, you all right? Wouldn’t interfere, but Violet was all for barging in here herself and you know how she--“

“Infuriating, meddling woman.”

There was a creak as Victor leaned against his door. “Fully normal then, “ he said wryly. “I’m sure it’ll make her day.”

Sherlock snorted and burrowed deeper under his pile of blankets.

“Quite serious, though, you’re really okay?” 

“I’m not dying, unfortunately enough for you,” Sherlock said, his voice muffled. “But I suggest you leave before you feel the need to fuck me into the mattress.” 

“Oh… really? No, I don’t think you’re going into heat. You’ve got to just be sick,” Victor mused, his voice clinical. “You smell fine and I don’t want to fuck you.” Sherlock heard him shift slightly. “Well,” he amended. “Not particularly more than I always do, at any rate.” 

“Your honesty is less refreshing than disheartening.” 

“Just pheromones, of course,” Victor said. He sounded distinctly untroubled. “But I’m pretty sure I don’t, at the moment.” 

"There is still some grace left in this world then,” Sherlock grumbled. “Though not much. My leg hurts. My back. Everything hurts. And I’m _cold_.”

Something thick came to rest comfortingly over him and a peek out of the blanket revealed Victor looking at him thoughtfully, one hand still on the extra duvet he’d heaped over Sherlock’s bed. 

“Look, don’t get mad—“

“If there is a “but” at the end of that sentence, then I make no promises.” 

“BUT,” Victor said firmly. “Did something remind you of your Alpha over break? Something you smelled, maybe? Because you seem like you might be… well. Wasting.” 

“’Wasting’?” Sherlock was outraged enough to sit up in bed and throw his covers off. “Don’t be absurd. That’s not even a real disease.” 

“The medical community says there might be some evidence—“

“The medical community is clearly compromised of imbeciles, then,” Sherlock cut in. “Labeling a sick Omega as ‘wasting’ is as the equivalent of diagnosing sexually repressed people with hysteria: convenient, indiscriminate, and completely scientifically invalid. Surely you aren’t suggesting—“

“What’s that on your face?”

Sherlock belatedly raised a hand to his still-stinging cheek and scowled. “Nothing.”

He desperately hoped that Victor would adhere to his usual strategy of casual indifference, but apparently, his friend had chosen this particular day to affect concern for him.

“It’s pretty red….Oh. Who’s history did you deduce then?”

“I merely informed Sebastian that his drug habit was becoming all too noticeable,” Sherlock said haughtily. “And then he presumed that I would be amiable to being forcibly restrained in my weakened state. “

“He presumed wrong, I take it. And so you…?”

“Spat in his eye, yes.” 

Victor was silent for a moment. “Had it coming to him,” he said at last, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “You know how he treats Omegas. You know Gloria’s Violet’s flat mate, right? She says he's always out with another Omega and then Gloria reels him back in for a bit and why on earth she wants the bastard is beyond me. ” 

“I know her rouge got darker after she began dating Sebastian,” Sherlock said. “The make up was thicker--stronger. I did tell you.”

“Yes, but I don’t see… Oh. Of course. She uses it as a cover up.”

“You see but you don’t observe,” Sherlock said loftily. But Victor’s normally bland expression was suddenly annoyed. 

“No one ought to treat Omegas like that…”

“We’re not any more fragile than the rest of the population,” Sherlock interjected. 

Victor ignored him. 

“It’s a fucking shame. Particularly when half of us never even have the chance at an Omega or a family and that prick just abuses her and cheats on her and from what I hear, she never says a word.” 

“It’s not unusual for an Alpha to treat an Omega like that, surely,” Sherlock began.

“Unusual?” Victor looked at him as if he’d perhaps sprouted an extra ear in the middle of his forehead. “I’d say it’s unusual. Never heard of it happening, actually. An Alpha has much more to lose by leaving an Omega, particularly if they aren’t bonded. There aren’t enough Omegas, so he’s unlikely to ever have that chance again. Unless he’s an Alpha-prime, course, but there are so few of those about. And I don’t think…”

“Sebastian is not,” Sherlock said. “He swaggers as if he is, but it wouldn’t fool any Omega for a moment.”

“Then why stay with him? He’s objectively attractive, clearly, and he has money…”

“As are and do you. No. That can’t be it.” 

Victor shrugged. “Well, you can’t explain people, I suppose.” 

“Wrong,” Sherlock said crisply. “People would like to believe they are highly original, but in reality, the vast majority of them are driven by the same basic instincts and are predictable in the extreme. Typical abuse scenario, he treats her badly and she stays with him. Not unusual in the slightest.

"No,” Victor shook his head. "I'm telling you, it's different. Something in her face, like she needs him...say." He raised an eyebrow. "You tell me, genius: What's really going on with Gloria Scott and Sebastian Wilkes?" 

“I’m sure I don’t know or care,” Sherlock sniffed. “Tawdry gossip.”

. “It might keep you busy for a bit. And that’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?”

“What?”

Victor grinned. 

“Tawdry gossip, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crit and love welcome as always. I always want to improve as a writer, so I'll appreciate whatever you've got, as long as it's constructive!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you feel that the tagging on this could be done differently/expanded, by all means leave a polite comment, I'll probably add it in. EDIT: thanks to everyone who weighed in!

‘Wasting’ indeed. Sherlock was burning up with an all too familiar fever and he wanted to claw his own skin off, because it itched and throbbed and Victor was an idiot. Everyone was an idiot. Everyone except… Sherlock struggled out of bed, heading straight for his closet. The beige jumper, already fraying at the edges and fairly dirty, was lumped benignly in the corner, as if forgotten. As if Sherlock _could_ forget about the damned thing.

Sherlock dragged it out, scattering a pile of folded clothes in the process. He hadn’t had it for a heat in a long time: it felt like a crutch, a reminder that he was very much not forgetting about that… no… HIS Alpha.

And why should he?, he thought irately, as he stripped off his tight, confining clothing. Why force himself through the pain of forgetting when he still had the thin scar of a bite on his neck, the vivid memory of a warm hand in his own… when he still felt comforted by even the slightest scent of the man? Little marks of ownership that, even a year and a half later, refused to fade. 

And yet there were so few places he could smell that distinct scent, now. The jumper still held hint of gun-smoke, yes, but mostly it was wool and a sweet, innocent milkiness that reminded him of Hamish. He sniffed again.

No. That WAS Hamish and a very recent smell too. 

Sherlock frowned blearily at lump in his hands. Someone must have given it to Hamish to sleep with … Not Mummy. Mycroft, maybe, but unlikely and, oh, Harry, but then she’d said she hadn’t seen it before, so why…

Sherlock’s thoughts drifted away and he curled back under his covers. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Victor that everything hurt. But it was unusual for a heat: not need, but throbbing pain, where had that come from? 

Sherlock whimpered as he tucked the jumper close to his chest. He was already fast losing his ability to think clearly and soon, of course, would come that feeling of utter wretchedness. Once his Omega nature truly took over, it would be a long night of self-flagellation, torturing himself by wondering why his Alpha left him ( _what was wrong with him, how had he driven him away, why…_ )

Sherlock groaned and twisted, pressing his face against the thick wool. And there it started. Thoughts which he’d buried but were far, far too close during his heats. But the scent comforted him (what was left of it) and he slowly sagged back. His head was spinning and god, it hurt, everything, everything hurt…

His last thought, before his head hit the pillow, was that he’d never blacked out during a heat before. 

\---

_The heat was blistering, burning and he felt as if it might flay the skin off of his very bones by it. There were noises too (so many of them, where had they come from?) and they forced their way into his head and caught there, pounding on the walls of his skull …_

_A flash of light sparked behind his eyelids (were they shut? Of course, he was sleeping, of course his eyes were shut and god, his head was pounding)._

_Someone touched him and he turned (sleeping, dammit), and there was another flash and a sharp pain tore up his leg, his side…._

Sherlock jerked awake and tore off his blankets before he could quite register what he was doing. 

Calm down. Think.

A nightmare. Of that he was sure, but the details slipped away like water through fingers, until all he could remember was the unadulterated terror of it. He was shaking and shivering now, but still, it was hot (far too hot) and he stumbled out of bed and pulled on the clothes he’d discarded earlier, before barging out of his flat. 

The halls were thankfully silent. Well into the early morning then, when even the latest sleepers were in their rooms. But outside, it was still dark and moonlit and blessedly cold. 

Sherlock flung open a door, but he only made it a few steps before the nausea hit him and he was forced to bend over and brace himself against his knees. Heat, but not heat (so much worse). His hair was damp with sweat, his forehead burning, and now he could feel the liquid seeping down the back of his trousers, sticky and uncomfortable. He attempted to straighten and then reeled again, this time dropping backwards into the powdery snow. 

Stupid, stupid. He should never have left the safety of his room.

_Stupid._

He tucked his arms around his knees. He’d move in a second, but the world seemed so very hazy at the moment (and yet too acute at the same time, how was that). If he sat back _against what?_ , laid in the grass _the snow, of course, not grass_ , he’d see the stars, so many and too close _there are no stars here_ …

“Aren’t you cold?” a gruff voice asked. Sherlock startled. 

Sebastian Wilkes walked out of the shadows, and Sherlock shook his head numbly. Sebastian stared at him for a moment, splayed out on his elbows in the snow, clad only in a thin t-shirt and jeans. 

“You really are a freak,” he said resignedly. But he shrugged out of his jacket and offered it. “Here. Have it.” 

Sherlock meant to refuse. But the warmth engulfed him as he struggled up, (sweet and woolen) and he relaxed despite himself. “You followed me,” he accused. 

Sebastian shrugged but his eyes shifted away in embarrassment. “Yes. Why?” he added, his voice suddenly challenging. “Got a problem with it, buddy?”

Sherlock eyed him wearily. He felt, really, that maybe he ought to have a problem with it, but he was oddly comfortable at the moment. Sebastian relaxed at the lack of protest and flopped down next to him. And it seemed perfectly natural then, really, to lean over and rest his head on Sebastian’s shoulder. Perfectly reasonable for Sebastian’s hand to trail up over his chest and cup the back of his head.

“You shouldn’t be out,” he said, almost kindly. 

Sherlock nodded in agreement, his head drooping heavily forwards. Seb caught him and tugged him up. Natural, was it then, for there to be a sharp, cruel tug in his hair and then a wet, hot tongue that pushed it’s way into Sherlock’s mouth, thick and uninvited. Seb’s hand swept over Sherlock’s chest and viciously pinched a nipple, tugging and Sherlock whimpered. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Sebastian muttered. “I bet I could make you scream.”

Sherlock didn’t really care for screaming, but he moaned obligingly as Sebastian’s hand made it’s way between his legs and groped at his hard cock. He thrust up, whining, and the needy, high sound, seemed to wake Seb up a little. “Come on,” he muttered. He dragged Sherlock up by the front of his shirt and gripped his wrist tightly. “You’re coming with me,” he said roughly, as if there was some off chance that Sherlock might protest. “But be quiet, freak.” 

Somehow, they made it. Stinking of pheromones and dodging security, Seb’s hand pushed into the back of Sherlock’s trousers. Seb pushed Sherlock roughly onto the bed and whirled around to lock the door. His eyes swept suspiciously over the windows until Sherlock moaned again and splayed his legs open invitingly. 

Seb growled.

“Yes. Look at you, you fucking little slut. You’re dripping for me, aren’t you?” He walked over and wrenched at Sherlock’s trousers, tearing them open. He shoved them to the floor, taking the boxers with them and Sherlock could feel the fluid soaking into the soft sheets. His hands went automatically out, reaching for a warm, familiar body. Instead, one met Seb's chest, the fingers spreading out as if to hold him off. The other struck the side table, upsetting a book and something small and glinting gold. 

Seb growled again as they clattered to the floor and leaned over. He grasped Sherlock’s wrists and pinned them brutally to the bed, his fingers clenching hard enough that Sherlock blinked, some of the haziness fading. “Seb, that hurts—“

“Shut up,” he snapped and Sherlock obediently closed his mouth. Seb’s mouth went to Sherlock’s throat, his heavy weight pressing Sherlock’s thin form into the mattress. But it only made it worse, because this was wrong and he couldn’t remember….

Sherlock whimpered, bucking up under the body that suddenly seemed to be imprisoning him. 

“Seb… Please Seb,” he said, suddenly frantic. “I…”

“What’s wrong now?” Seb demanded. His hands ran over Sherlock’s body and they seemed heavy and too rough, but they were there at least, thick and smelling of Alpha pheromones. Sherlock’s legs seemed to spread wider of their own accord, and Seb looked at him smugly, on hand firmly grabbing Sherlock’s bare hip. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, hit by a brief clarity. Seb… wanted him. It was odd, being wanted, despite the lingering traces of his bond. And Sherlock could ride this heat out by himself in his own flat, pathetic and whimpering and crying as always. Or he could use Seb as much as he was using him, get up in the morning and leave before the idiot even realized what had happened. 

Sherlock shook his head, biting his lower lip. “Nothing,” he decided, finally. 

“Nothing is wrong.” 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is... difficult.... He never cooperates with me.


	14. Chapter 14

_The man in front of him was hazy. Blonde, tanned and stocky and here, he recognized him immediately, in a way he never would in real life. He didn’t turn when Sherlock approached._

_“You’re not supposed to be here,” the man said and his voice was curiously hoarse._

_“And yet, here I am.”_

_Explanations were hardly necessary in a dream world and besides, if his subconscious had just given him the gift he thought it had, there was no possible way Sherlock was going to waste his time on irrelevancies._

_The man turned and took an uncertain step forwards and then they were in each other’s arms, nose to nose, Sherlock’s wide eyes flicking down over a face that could not possibly have looked any other way._

_“Christ, I miss you. Don’t even know if you even remember me,” the Alpha said, as if Sherlock wasn’t clinging to him like a limpet, and Sherlock opened his mouth, an acrid reply ready on his tongue. But the man's breath was warm and tender against Sherlock’s lips and his hand traced down Sherlock’s chest, rubbing soothingly. “And I never even told you that you…you were fucking perfect, love.”_

_“Am not. Never was.” Half-formed thoughts spiraled through his head, bringing with them a slight sense of panic. Hamish and his mother and… and that boy, he’d left with, had he left with? The one that smelled like sweat and too-strong aftershave and was so very, very wrong… But no that had been a nightmare. Had to have been, because this, this was _his_ and how could he have forgotten?_

_The man was trying to speak, but his throat was too dry and Sherlock could see now that his lips were cracked and nearly bleeding. His tongue slid out to wet them._

_“You….” he said finally. He trailed off again and Sherlock closed his eyes, knowing precisely what he would say. Sweat trickled down his forehead and he realized suddenly that it was hot, why was it so bloody hot here?_

_But the man was wrong and Sherlock had to tell him. Tell him that he was in love with a dream (maybe they both were) and that this would never work if they did meet. Because then the Alpha would realize that Sherlock wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t even…_

_“I am not anything near what you presume me to be."_

_Sherlock could feel the wetness trickling down his cheeks, sweat perhaps, or tears, and the softest brush of lips across his own. A thumb swiped at his tears and wrong and wrong again._

_His Alpha stretched up and pressed a kiss to the bottom of his jaw._

_“Whatever you are," he said softly. "You are loved.”_  
\---

Sherlock blinked slowly awake, half-certain that he must still be dreaming. Or perhaps the bit before had been the dream, because there was a warm body next to him and he held out his hand, struck by a sudden sense of relief. His Alpha was here, of course (where else would he be?) and if Sherlock could just touch him…

The Alpha rolled over, one arm flopping across Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock automatically flinched as the onslaught of pheromones and sweat hit him. 

Oh. 

Seb. Of course. 

An unreasonable wave of disappointment swept through him, followed almost immediately by distaste. Seb, here, naked, and he realized suddenly that he was still wearing the tattered remains of his good shirt, rucked up high over chest and that he could feel the dry, flaking remnants of their fluids on his body. Seb had rubbed the foul substance over him, like as not, and presumably, Sherlock had let him and now it sent a roil of disgust through his abdomen.

He needed to leave. It was still dark outside, meaning he couldn’t have been sleeping for long and, with a little bit of stealth, he could make it back before the next wave of his heat hit and he lost clarity again. 

Seb grasped sleepily for him when he climbed hastily out of the bed, but he was too slow and satiated to make a proper effort. Sherlock impatiently batted his hands away. Later. He would examine this later.

He found a pair of trousers (his) and a shirt (not his) and sniffed them warily. The stench clung to them too, the stench of him and Seb and… Something glinted near his feet and in a fit of pique, he snatched that too. 

He needed a shower so very badly. 

Back at his flat, he stood under the hot spray until his skin turned wrinkled and the water ran cold. It was soothing, for one thing, and if he felt a peculiar urge to scrub more intensely than usual, well, his classmates had always claimed he was a bit precious. He fancied he could still smell it (that smell) and, worse, he could taste it in the back of his mouth. Taste _sex_ , hot and filthy and pungent, how irrational. 

His stomach shifted uneasily. 

Victor knocked at the door after an hour, uncharacteristically determined. 

“Are you all right?” he demanded, when Sherlock finally stumbled out. “You didn’t come home and the entire flat reeked of heat and I was… worried, dammit.” 

“I’m FINE,” Sherlock dismissed. “Really, Victor, I can take perfectly good care of myself.”

Victor sniffed him and wrinkled his nose. 

“You smell…” he started, but Sherlock wrapped the towel tighter around his waist and hurried away before Victor could recall exactly what (or who) Sherlock smelled like. 

\---  
Sherlock avoided Seb, after. Not for any clear-cut purpose, but because the very idea of Seb gave him a slightly fluttery, nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach. Silly, of course, but the heavy stench of still sex plagued him and he winced at the slightest reminder of it. 

Disgusting, really. 

But then again, perhaps Seb was avoiding him as well. Unsurprising: he had an image to maintain, after all, and nowhere in that image would a liaison with the ‘freak’ be condoned, Omega or not. He was dating Gloria again (a bit of news that Victor delivered with a touch of curiosity and a pointed look in Sherlock’s direction) and really, it was all very well that that had gone nowhere. Sherlock had no desire for attachment and Seb, though convenient, was only marginally less repulsive than the idea of a heat spent alone. 

Which was why, when the door to his bedroom swung open three weeks later, Sherlock was, to put it mildly, surprised.

“Well, what is it then?”

No answer. Sherlock spared a brief glance up to note that Seb’s face had gone a vile shade of green. He looked back at the array of chemistry equipment in front of him and nearly grinned. 

“No need to get excited,” he said crisply, going back to his microscope. “It’s just a sample of pig’s blood.” 

It wasn’t. It was a sample of his own blood, as any idiot who glanced at his heavily wrapped finger should have been able to tell. And so far, this sample seemed perfectly ordinary for a bonded Male Omega, as had every other makeshift test Sherlock had run on himself. 

Wasting. Humph. 

“You—er. You left this.” Seb placed a bundle of clothing on the side table, looking mildly annoyed at being upstaged by animal blood. 

“Clearly not why you’re here,” Sherlock bit off. “If you have something to say, say it and stop wasting my time.” 

“I just thought…”

He could feel the smug entitlement rolling off of the Alpha and his skin crawled. 

“No.”

“You haven’t even…”

“No, I will not engage in sexual intercourse with you simply because my heat is coming up,” Sherlock clarified. He swiveled in his chair and narrowed his eyes. Seb had turned a predictable shade of purple. Humiliation, possibly, or, with any luck, asphyxiation. 

“Listen, I'm not really...“

Dull.

“Yes, yes, infertility and perhaps even occasional impotence is no doubt a side effect of your prolonged drug use. Though I imagine it has enabled you to land quite a few encounters without having to worry about the consequences. And thoroughly destroyed your sense of scent in the bargain, but let’s focus on the positives, shall we?” Sherlock flashed him a patently false grin… and ducked as a fist came crashing at him. 

The anosmia had been fortunate as well, in fact, as that was no doubt why Sherlock’s bond had had no effect on Seb’s willingness to tumble into bed with him in the first place. Or unfortunate. Sherlock hadn’t decided yet, but he certainly wasn’t about to give Seb the benefit of the doubt. 

“I believe you’re over-reacting,” Sherlock panted, noting absently that he really ought to cut back on the cigarettes. He scrambled out of the way of another blow, narrowly avoiding a punch to his nose. 

His microscope was not so lucky. But the ear-splitting crash seemed to bring Seb back to his senses. He looked wildly about the room for a second, as if waiting for someone to barge in and demand what he was doing, (which they wouldn’t—Victor was out and, anyways, large crashes were not unknown from Sherlock’s area of the flat). He relaxed after a moment passed, and, to Sherlock’s intense relief, lowered his hand.

Sherlock pursed his lips and edged warily around the edge of the room, avoiding shards of glass. 

“I’ll require a replacement for that microscope, it was tediously expensive.” 

“Sure, buddy,” Seb muttered, in a way that made it abundantly clear that Sherlock would be receiving no such thing. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Or I shall certainly be telling the requisite authorities about HOW it was broken.”

“They won’t believe you.”

“Won’t they?” Sherlock gazed pointedly at Seb’s nose and Seb self-consciously raised a hand to wipe at it before he realized what he was doing. He scowled and then, suddenly, his face went blank. Back to his usual, congenial self, slick and sure. Sherlock didn’t trust him. 

“What? What is it?”

“Awfully high strung, aren’t you?” Seb said and for a moment, he sounded genuinely sympathetic. “You Omegas always are. Shouldn’t you be taking something for that? Calm you down a bit?”

“And by something, I presume you mean those illegal suppressants you slip to your girlfriends?”

Seb’s face was shocked and Sherlock sighed. “Even you wouldn’t be stupid enough to rely on infertility. And of course it’s obvious: how many Alphas can afford to have easy relations with Omegas and not be saddled with numerous children? Though really, we might consider it a blessing to humanity that you choose not to procreate…” 

Seb recovered quickly. “So you wouldn’t?” he persisted. 

He hesitated and he knew Seb saw it.

“No,” he said, too quickly and too late. 

“Not even to be normal… for a second? Not to have to worry about your body betraying you?” Seb said and dammit, he’d underestimated Sebastian Wilkes.

“Might be a relief, really. Think about it: none of that pathetic whimpering about in heat. You wouldn’t be so sloppy, then.” 

Sherlock shook his head. Seb curled a hand into the front of his shirt and Sherlock grabbed it, suddenly furious.

“Let. GO.”

“Or so slow,” Seb continued, his eyes cold. “You could be brilliant. Your tricks are one thing, but if you didn’t have to worry about every Alpha that passed you in the hallways? Didn't have to worry about being assaulted or hurt?”

It was clear that he’d given this speech more than once and yet, Sherlock doubted it had ever not found it's mark. “Concerned about me? How very chivalrous of you, Sebastian. But tell me, why would _you_ want me to be free from my heats?”

Seb grinned. “I don’t believe you need to be in heat to end up in my bed now, do you?’

“Charming,” Sherlock said dryly. It made sense, of course. An Omega in heat was a prize (he managed not to shudder at the thought), but a casual and readily available bed partner was infinitely more valuable. Omegas were potent even out of heat and for an unbonded Alpha to have constant access to one and that too, without running the risk of an unwanted attachment…

“So?" Seb prodded.

Sherlock looked away, his eyes unfocused. “Addiction. Anxiety, irritability, depression, permanent damage to the reproductive system, breast pain, heart complications and even death, depending on the batch. There’s no regulation of it, after all.”

Sebastian didn’t look remotely fazed.

“All of that,” he said agreeably. 

Sherlock blinked.

“Fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of violence waiting to happen in the comments around here, you guys are fantastic.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I rushed this off right before the New Year. But this (unedited and likely awful, I'm sorry) chapter is for all the lovely and encouraging people who've been waiting so patiently. And particularly for [fayfayfay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fayfayfay/pseuds/fayfayfay) who also writes a brilliant OmegaSherlock. (I'm sorry to have driven you crazy, dear)

The pills were innocuous and blue. Three of them, wrapped up neatly in plastic, taken once a week. Often with a little extra, a bit of white powder or whatever else it was Seb had managed to procure. Sherlock didn’t have any excuses to offer for that habit, not even to himself. But the drugs made everything a little more...bearable. The rush was exhilarating and the sharpness of his mind gratifying, but the control- The control was addictive.

Today, he felt a hand slip something into his back pocket as he stood, shirtless, near Seb’s window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. 

"Come on then," Seb said pointedly. He slung one arm around Sherlock's bare waist and drew him roughly backwards. "Unless you like being watched." 

Sherlock instantly stepped away and snapped the curtains shut, bile rising in his throat. He stood there for a second, holding onto the very edges of the drapery, willing himself not to turn and acknowledge the amusement on Seb's face. 

"Blushing?" Seb asked, his voice laced with false concern. "Why freak? Does it turn you on?"

The idea of voyeurism was clearly turning Seb on or else they wouldn't be having this conversation. Or perhaps it was the red stain of anger seeping down Sherlock's chest, the one that Seb had so conveniently mistaken for false modesty

"It would be your reputation ruined, not mine," Sherlock said finally, when he could trust his voice. He managed to inject a note of utter apathy into the statement. "After all, Seb," he said, unbuttoning his trousers and letting them fall to the floor. "Surely you know there is no one whose opinion I truly care about."

"I forgot,” Seb said agreeably, as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Just transport, isn't it?"

Sherlock ran a palm over the flat slope of his abdomen, feeling the raised lines that stood out against the pale skin and swallowed.

“Indeed,” he said carefully, tucking his arms protectively about his belly. The very idea of Seb finding out about Hamish nauseated him, but, luckily, Seb was a fool. Sherlock turned and raised one sardonic eyebrow, looking the very picture of boredom. "Might we finish this sometime before the end of term?" he drawled. "I have better things to do and no doubt Gloria and her ample trust fund are missing you already.”

\---  
In his pocket, Sherlock carried the gold ring he’d snatched from Seb’s floor that first night, with its etched graving and solid weight. Because Seb was a bit more than annoying and besides, the pompous fool hadn’t even noticed it was missing yet. And likely never would, Sherlock mused rather cynically. 

Call it insurance. 

\---

“Go on and say it,” Sherlock said, after the silence had stretched for nearly an hour. Victor shook his head “no’ and slouched in his seat.

“Nothing to say,” he lied and Sherlock snorted, but didn’t pursue the subject. Left to his own devices, Victor would forget completely, no doubt. But Victor surprised him yet again.

“Bit worried,” he said casually. “Just a bit, Sherlock.”

“None of your business, is it?”

“No,” Victor said thoughtfully. “It isn’t, really. But you never liked Seb.” Just a statement, a statement without judgement, but Victor had that ability, to convey absolutely everything he meant in a simple, flat observation and Sherlock bristled with the implications.

“It's for a case of sorts,” Sherlock said. “Gossip, if you prefer.” And he plucked the ring from his pocket and tossed it, gleaming, into the air. Victor watched its glimmering descent and then his eyes widened.

“Whose is that?” he demanded. “It can’t be a---

“Seb’s,” Sherlock answered. “And yes, it is.”

The corner of his mouth crooked up as he flipped it in his palm and read the inscription. 

_“With love from Gloria”._

“That explains it then,” Victor said and Sherlock nodded curtly.

“It seems the gossip is a bit more sordid than we thought,” he said. 

\----

Seb was in a playful mood and it was awful. 

He lazily pushed a hand up Sherlock’s shirt as they lay smoking in a hidden clump of grass, pulling until it rode high over Sherlock’s chest, exposing his pale, flat nipples. Seb tapped the powdery column of his cigarette over the line of pubic hair extending into Sherlock’s jeans and the ash landed grey against dark, curling hair, causing Sherlock to scowl and wriggle away. Not that Seb would hurt him. Sherlock was fairly certain he didn’t care enough for that. Still...

“Why do you keep doing that?” Seb asked abruptly.

“Doing what?” Sherlock snapped, his eyes narrowing. 

“Holding your arms around your middle. You do it all the time.” 

“Do not.” 

“You look like…” Seb snapped his fingers in the air and Sherlock tugged his shirt gratefully back into place as he waited for the inevitably erroneous conclusion. But Seb was not truly an idiot, for all that Sherlock had difficulty thinking of him as anything but. 

Now, the git smiled.

“You know buddy, you look like my mum when she was pregnant with my sister. Wrapped her arms around her stomach all the time.” He appeared to find this very amusing, Sherlock noted sourly. Perhaps it was. 

“Very clever, Sebastian, you’ll make something of yourself yet,” Sherlock drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. But something in his tone must have been off, because Seb pushed himself up on his elbow, his gaze narrowing.

“You’re not… you haven’t actually gotten yourself knocked up, have you?” he asked. “You can’t have, with the pills, but if you missed one…”

“Don’t be a moron,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “As if I’d have a child with you.”

Seb grinned tautly and sagged back against the grass. “That’s a relief. And here I was afraid you were getting clingy.”

“Oh, shut up.” 

“Make me.” Seb had apparently regained his good humor.

Sherlock ignored the blatant invitation in favor of flopping backwards on the lawn, but Seb rolled over and pinned his wrists to the grass. Still grinning, though there was now a touch of predatoriness to it. “Oh quiet now, are we?” 

“Stop it,” Sherlock said. Seb’s grip didn’t loosen, “Stop it,” Sherlock said again, a warning creeping into his voice. “I know three different ways to kill you from this position and another four possibilities to incapacitate you. I suggest, for your own personal benefit, that you let go.” 

Seb scowled and released him with a huff. “All right, all right. Just a harmless bit of fun. You’re so fucking proper all the time, Sherlock. Loosen up a bit, mate.”

Sherlock stood up silently and brushed himself off. 

“Hey, where are you going, then?”

“Chemistry,” Sherlock said briefly, slinging his bag across his shoulder. “I would so hate to be late.” 

“See you tonight then? I have a new shipment,” Seb cajoled, clearly realizing he needed to sweeten the deal. 

“Very well,” Sherlock said, hating himself just a little. “Until later, then.” 

\---  
Gloria Scott was blonde and buxom and taller than Sherlock by at least three inches. Her voice was soft and cultured, even in anger, and Sherlock thought that, really, she wasn’t so stupid. He might even have liked her, if they’d met in different circumstances. As it was, she'd rounded the corner as he stood, smoking, against the chemistry building and Sherlock had known from the look in her eyes that bolting wasn’t going to be an option. 

“You’re awful,” she’d said as soon as she’d seen him and it was clear that she’d had already begun this conversation without his participation. “Do you even have any idea what you’re doing, Sherlock Holmes? You can't, or else you wouldn't.”

It was a statement and it was false. Sherlock felt the weight of the ring in his pocket and lied. “Possibly not,” he said, flicking ash across her shiny boots. “But I’m quite sure you intend to inform me.”

“He didn’t tell you?” she asked in disbelief. “About us… nothing?” And then her face crumpled before he could so much as answer and Sherlock felt that perhaps it was time to be leaving after all. But he’’d barely turned when her voice drifted out from behind him.

“It’s just a game to you, isn’t it?” she asked, a slight edge of hopelessness pervading her voice for the first time. “You don’t even care about any of it, really, you just want your kicks…”

“This is not about me at all,” Sherlock said, spinning slowly back around. “Lay the blame at my door if it makes your feeble romance any less pathetic in your mind, Miss Scott, but the truth is, Seb has never cared for you and likely never will. You were engaged at what… 15? Right after your first heat?”

Gloria nodded, her eyes filling with tears. 

“Typical story then, I was right,” Sherlock said dismissively. “A bond, forced and made too early, an abusive, conniving, manipulative brute who took advantage of it and…” Sherlock flicked his eyes over Gloria, the new, flat shoes, the heavy makeup applied with an inexperienced hand,, the bitten nails and the torn designer jeans, hastily sewed and shook his head. “And the girl who let him,” he finished. 

“Let him?” Gloria asked in disbelief. She smiled, a little, torn smile, and cocked her head, heedless of the rivulets of tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “You really don’t know what you’re talking about, do you? I need him, Holmes. It’s not a choice I have---”

“Then I pity you,” Sherlock cut in. “But the good news, as far as you are concerned, is that I would not keep Sebastian even if I could. The bad news is that it likely won’t make a difference to his philandering.” 

“That’s not even the point,” Gloria said, frustration seeping through her voice. “You won’t believe me, you won’t see and can’t prove it to you Holmes, but I need him, I--- I would give so much, not to need him, but I can’t help it, I- I’m--” 

“You’re soul-bonded to him,” Sherlock said curtly and she stepped back as if she’d been slapped. “Yes, I know. And I know what it means, as well.” He hesitated and then pulled Seb’s ring from his pocket and tossed it to her. She caught it automatically, her eyes tearing up again at the sight.

“But does Seb know what that means?”

“He gave this to you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock said. “What good could it do me? The trouble he’d be in for losing it is far beyond the value of that much gold. No. I took it.”

“Why?” she demanded, clutching it in her palm.

 _Because I needed something to hold over his head, just in case. And because…_ “Because he deserves it.” 

He thought, for a second, she might punch him. She took a step forwards and he tensed, preparing to duck if needed, but her hands stayed clenched at her sides. “You’re a bastard, to say such things,” she said furiously. Sherlock opened his mouth and she held up a hand, silencing him. “But you’re right, aren’t you?” 

She pushed the ring back into his hands and Sherlock gaped at her, even as his hands closed instinctively around it. 

“Keep it,” she said, a touch of humor glinting in her eyes. “You’re right… He does deserve it.” 

“And what about you then?” Sherlock asked, surprising even himself. “Without that bond-- wasting, hurting, death, are the stories even true?”

She shrugged.

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” she said.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter. And John. To make up for my prolonged absence. But the computer is back!

Seb noticed, albeit after two weeks. He was bound to realize Gloria was willfully ignoring him, particularly considering her lack of subtlety in the matter, though it was still debatable whether he noticed her lack of attentions before he noticed his deteriorating health.

“I don’t understand,” he said. Sherlock furrowed his brow at a spot about eye-level on the left wall. A slight pink mark, faint, but recent, or else he’d have remembered it. 

“Was she here?” he asked.

Seb paused. “Who?” he said. “No.” 

“I have experiments to run,” Sherlock said. “Blood-staining. Pink, red or brown? Depends on the surface. Red is obvious, but unlikely in a realistic sense. Blood rarely stains red, unless a large quantity has been spilled. ” 

“You’re a funny little thing, buddy,” Seb said. “And I don’t know why I bother talking to you, it’s not like you’re even listening.” 

“I am,” Sherlock said. “I simply wonder, sometimes. Stains...rather telling, I should say.” 

\---

 

“Gloria looks awful,” Violet said and Sherlock tilted his head to indicate he was listening. “Like Hell chewed her up and spat her back out.” 

“Yes…” Sherlock mused. “Yes, she would. Deteriorating? Pale skin, wasting flesh, pinched cheeks---” He reeled off the list with a certain sense of satisfaction. 

Gloria wasn’t a bad sort. In another world, he might have liked her. In this, though, he had recently had the pleasure of watching Seb trip down the stairs because his legs were barely supporting him. He still bore a nasty, angry bruise on his forehead and Sherlock admittedly took a vindictive pleasure in its presence. 

“You’re a terrible person, you know that?” Violet said. She mimed throwing a beaker at him and Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“In my defense, I have never denied it.” 

“But no," Violet continued, as if he hadn't spoken. “Not that type of awful. Upset, is all. Mopey. Don't think you should start digging her grave just yet, it'd be a bit soon."

"That… that is funny." 

"Why?" Violet asked. "Wouldn't expect a girl to go die because her boyfriend's an arse, would you? Didn't take you for a romantic." 

Sherlock shook his head. "Maybe not. Though in this case… Hmm. No. Maybe not." 

\---

"Will you shut that fucking thing off?"

Sherlock rolled over, one hand instantly settling over his mobile and drawing it to his ear.

"Sherlock," Seb growled from the corner. "You can take that later."

Sherlock ignored him and sat up, the phone already cradled against his ear. "Harry?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, sweetie, don’t worry.”

Sherlock relaxed.

"Was it really necessary to disturb me at this time in the morning?" he said. "Really, when you deviate from schedule with such wild abandon, you can hardly expect that I won't be worried..."

"Yes, that's me. Reveling in wild abandonment," Harry said and Sherlock felt a grin twitch at the corner of his mouth despite himself. 

"Do try to restrain yourself, Harry, you have a child to take care of." 

Seb turned to glower at him and Sherlock edged off the bed and towards the window, until he was safely out of reach. 

"I just wanted to know when you'd be arriving home, genius." 

"Arriving home...?"

"It's near the end of the Lent term, isn't it? Sherlock..." Harry's voice took a decided turn for the suspicious. "You didn't forget, did you?"

"Of course not. I will be home by nightfall," Sherlock said, covering up his surprise. "Trains shouldn't be difficult to catch and...."

"What about your exams?" 

Sherlock had, in fact, forgotten utterly about his exams. He was spared answering by the very-nearly fortunate (and thoroughly predictable) occurrence Seb slamming the phone of out his hand. It clattered on the floor, Harry's befuddled tones emanating faintly from it.

"I told you," Seb said, his face inches from Sherlock's own. "To shut the damn thing off.”

“It was important,” Sherlock replied. He stepped carefully backwards and scooped the mobile off the floor. “Harry,” he said, keeping a wary eye on Seb. “I will talk to you later. Something has come up.”

“Are you all right? Sherlock? Sherlock what WAS--” He rolled his eyes and hung up on her.

“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” he told the now silent mobile, frowning. 

“Sherlock do you ever listen to me?" Seb said. "You better---”

“No, sorry, you were quite enjoying your rant, weren’t you? Pray continue.” 

“Give it to me,” Seb demanded. “Give me the bloody phone or I will hurt--”

“Oh, for the love of--I’d like to see you try,” Sherlock snapped. Seb lunged for him and Sherlock narrowly avoided being punched in the nose. Instead, the blow merely glanced off his cheek, though it didn’t do much to improve his temper. 

“I do everything for you,” Seb said. “I give you pills, I fuck your sorry arse when you’re whining for it and you’re still want to sit there and be all high and mighty buddy, but what are you, really? You’re just a fucking Omega, no matter what your last name is or how much money your family has. You all like getting fucked the exact same, don’t you?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I’m leaving.”

“You’re always ‘leaving’,” Seb said. “And you always come back. Funny, isn’t it?”

“Hilarious,” Sherlock said. He reached for his clothing and was stopped by a hand on his wrist.

“Let go.”

“Hey, hey,” Seb placated. “I’m not…”

“I have to go home,” Sherlock said, wrenching his hand away. “And you… you should find that ring, Seb. I hear the consequences of breaking a soul bond are nothing less than disasterous.” 

“How would you know about that?” Seb said. “You don’t. You’re just making things up, as usual, aren’t you?”

“I make it my business to know things,” Sherlock said. He grabbed his coat and headed for the door. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have things of some importance to do.”

\-----  
He ended up skipping the exams and taking the night train back. There were more important things, after all, and the idea of seeing Seb's repulsive face even once more before break didn't appeal to him. Not that his own monstrosity of a childhood home was anything less than repulsive but still… It had been a nearly interminable few months away. 

By the time he made it home, it was nightfall and the house was silent. He headed directly for Hamish's room and was just about to enter when Harry stepped out, a phone pressed to her ear and a severe look on her face.

"He's sleeping," she mouthed. Sherlock tried to step past her and was instantly blocked by exactly 1.57 meters of stubborn Omega.

Harry took the phone away from her ear just long enough to admonish him. "I just got him to sleep, Sherlock, and he's so frightfully cranky anyways--" Right on cue, a miserable wail began from the room behind her. 

"Oh, fuck, really--No. Stay here. I'll get him to sleep, you'll only excite him and--" A deeper, puzzled sounding voice emanated from the phone in her hand and she groaned before answering.

"Yes, John, I'm here--Christ, you're a bigger baby than anyone else."

"Harry--" Sherlock began.

"All of you," she burst out and Sherlock stepped back, surprised by the vehemence in her tone. "Every single one of you is so damned stupid and you all want attention and then I just wonder--" She huffed and stared at the phone in her hand for a second. The voice within had risen to slightly more indignant pitches. "I.. Hmm." She placed one hand on Sherlock's chest, stopping him as he tried to sneak around her yet again. "Hold up a second."

"I won't be denied entrance to--"

"Oh, for god's sakes, shut up." Harry was looking at him, but speaking into the receiver, so it wasn't readily apparent who she was talking to. Still, she had a gleam in her eyes which Sherlock heartily distrusted. "Yes," she said now. "Yes, John? Still there? Okay, here. I have someone you can talk to. It's the mother-- No. You'll be fine. Here." 

Harry smiled and tossed the mobile at Sherlock who caught it automatically. 

"What is this?" he demanded.

"Go on, Hamish needs a change and you need a break, you look like hell," Harry said. “Besides, John won’t bite. Or well… he can’t through the phone anyways.”

“This is you _brother_?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Harry said and then she was gone, the door slamming firmly behind her. 

Dammit. 

Meanwhile, the man on the phone was sounding increasingly frustrated. 

"Hello? Harry-- Harry are you there?" he asked, when Sherlock finally deigned to raise the phone to his ear. 

Hmm. Deeper, slightly raspy voice, authoritative, impatient. Used to being obeyed and likely didn't react too well when he wasn't. Typical Alpha male then, and an army Alpha at that, likely at least a Captain. 

This was going to be tedious. 

"I am afraid your accursed sister has left you with only me for company," Sherlock said. "Likely, this conversation will prove dreadful for you. If you should wish to hang up right now, I should not fault you. In fact, I should encourage it." 

"Right..." the man (John) said. "Well that's-- that's just lovely really, but I'm bored enough that I'll impose on you a bit and take the offer." 

Bloody Alphas, always assuming rights even where there were none.

"There was no offer," Sherlock said. 

"I don't know," John said. "I reckon you implied that if I DIDN'T hang up, you'd talk to me. "

"No."

"You did."

Sherlock hesitated. Typical, really, all of it, but something about that voice, that tone-- Sherlock rallied.

"That was not the implication at all," he said. 

"I rather reckon it was," John replied. 

" _No._ "

"You're a bit of a stubborn arse." 

A bit short-fused, this one. He'd jumped from trying to persuade to insulting so fast, it was disconcerting. Too young to be a Captain, maybe, too volatile...Still, he didn't sound annoyed. Just… amused. Which was very nearly infuriating.

"So I've been told," Sherlock said curtly. He glanced over his shoulder, but Harry was nowhere in sight. Confound the woman. Meanwhile, John didn’t seem to know when he was beaten. Perhaps it ran in the family. 

"Hey there,” he said, now. “I was joking. People are awful. They shouldn't say things like that. 'Specially to you, you're pretty brilliant, I hear."

"Yes. Wait. You do?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "From who?"

"Harry, of course," John said. "She talks about you a lot.” 

“She shouldn’t. It’s hardly her business," Sherlock said. "And flattery will get you nowhere," he added, just in case.

“Christ, but you’re a piece of work, aren’t you?” 

Sherlock flinched, despite the clearly jesting nature of the words. But he'd been called worse on a good day, so it couldn't matter, what this stranger thought of him, could it? And yet, he felt the urge to please John, make him say... what was it? Brilliant? Useless flattery, that, but, Sherlock _wanted_ it and that, THAT was just… insufferable. 

Time to hang up. Quickly. 

“Look, this is clearly not a productive use of either of our times. I know precisely how this conversation will go, so I’ll give you the short form, shall I?”

“Wait, now---”

Sherlock talked right over him.

“First, you will continue to attempt to make polite conversation. I will continue to rebuff you. Finally, you will get annoyed, if you are not already, and then you will either launch into a list of my perceived faults or hang up. And considering your general impatience and your limited amount of time, one would suspect the latter. 

"Just one sec--"

"Then again," Sherlock continued. "You are persistent and clearly desperate for human contact. So no, I believe you’ll chose the former, at which point I shall get annoyed and hang up instead. Therefore, in order to curtail that chain of events, I should, rationally, hang up right now.”

John said nothing for a moment and Sherlock waited for the dial tone, sure the Alpha would see the sense of it. Disappointing, slightly, but then, he'd rather counted on that fact that no one could take his particular brand of vitriol for too long--

“And why haven’t you then?” John said and Sherlock started. 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said. He held the phone away from his ear and frowned at it for a moment, before tucking it back against his shoulder. “Ingrained politeness, perhaps.”

“I doubt it. Wouldn’t say you have much of that.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint Harry.”

John had the nerve to snort. “Right. No, none of that."

"Fine. Then, by all means enlighten me with your brilliant suggestion."

"Got me there. Maybe... it’s because you’re curious.”

“About you?”

“Yeah.”

That threw Sherlock for a second. “Well, then... you think very highly of yourself.”

“I didn’t-- oh never mind. But maybe it's because I haven’t gotten angry yet or hung up. And you want to know why, don't you?”

“Admittedly, I would have estimated two minutes. But it has already been closer to 10.” Sherlock stared at the door, but only silence greeted him. “Hmm. Clearly, your sister saw something I did not.”

“Well," John said reasonably. "The fact that you’re an arse doesn’t change the fact that you’re brilliant.”

“And here I thought you were simply making small talk because you were bored.”

“I’m not. Well. Not any more. What was your name again?” John asked. 

“Sherlock," he admitted. 

“Sherlock, then. Good to meet you.”

“You haven’t. Yet.”

“I will, eventually. And until then, I'll need someone to talk to, sometimes, and you're not-- eh. Not too bad.”

The tone had changed again and Sherlock felt nearly dizzy from the unexpected whip-lash of it. Easy, still, amused, even, but there was another note there that he couldn't quite--

“Are you _flirting_ with me?” he asked, startled. 

“Problem?” John said. 

Definitely amused. 

“Yes. No. Yes. I am bonded.”

“Pity, that. All the interesting, cynical ones always are. Byronic hero thing, I guess. Are you tall, dark, and handsome too?”

“You ARE flirting with me.” He had just enough presence of mind to hope the implied ‘idiot’ hadn’t been lost in the surprise. 

“Well done, genius. But I'm not actually-- well. Not exactly looking, either. But friends, you can always use one of those, can't you?” 

Apparently, it had been. 

“No, you can’t,” Sherlock said. “Or rather, I can't and won't. People are idiots.”

“That they are," John agreed. "Well, I guess you’ve got one at least, like it or not.”

“Hardly.”

“Yes. Lieutenant John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, at your service.” 

Sherlock could practically see the sardonic salute that he was sure had accompanied those words.

“Well, I don't--”

“Got to go. I’ll suppose I'll talk to you later then?"

"John, I--"

"Right. Bye, Sherlock. I'll expect you to call then."

He hung up, leaving Sherlock gaping indignantly for a few moments. 

“You may expect no such thing,” he said, finally, and he could have sworn the dial tone was mocking him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always imagined that a younger John would have a rather wicked sense of humor. And an inability to curb his flirtatious side.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapters in the interest of getting this out and not driving you all crazy. Love and appreciate all your comments, they make me so happy!

_It was always this hot. Sun and sand and wind and Sherlock wondered why it was here, after all, that they had to meet. It didn’t matter. He was in no position to complain about the sporadic dreams, not if that was all they ever had._

_A rustling behind him and then his Alpha was there, one arm wrapping around Sherlock’s waist from the back. He knew him by his scent and the stockiness of his body, but mostly by that incredible certainty that only a dream can bring._

_“Hello, love.”_

_“I can’t see you, why can’t I see you?”_

_“Can you ever?”_

_A hand stroked along his neck, down his chest, between his legs and Sherlock shivered and let his head fall back. Let his Alpha do what he would, let him touch. Just feather prints of fingers over the length of his body. Familiar in a way they had no right to be._

_“Touch me,” he said, trapping his Alpha’s hand against the sharp curves of his own hip. It was a challenge as much as a request._

_“Seems that’s exactly what I’m doing.” An exasperated huff. That was new._

_“You’re not,” Sherlock accused. “You never have.”_

_“I’m sorry,” he said and Sherlock shook his head._

_“You wouldn’t recognize me if you did.”_

_“I’m--_

_“Don’t apologize to me. I need to see you. I need to know--”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“I just told you not to--stop it.” Sherlock grasped his Alpha’s hand and curled his fingers possessively around the blunt fingers, brought them up to press to his mouth. “Stop apologizing. Kiss me. Punch me. Something, anything--”_

_“But I’m not even here, love.”_

_“Liar.” Sherlock wrenched himself free and turned around… but there was nothing behind him save piles of sand, shifting, scorching._

_Blinding._  
\---

“Sherlock? Sherlock, love, you were screaming.”

Sherlock sat up and reached blindly for the voice at his side. It took him more than a moment to realize, in his disorientation, that that wasn’t-- wool and tea and sun and gun-metal--

“You--” he said, rounding on Harry, who was kneeling by his side. “You-- you smell--like--”

“No, I don’t,” she said, dropping his hand. 

“I didn’t say what you smelled like,” Sherlock pointed out. 

“You were screaming,” she said, again. “About your--well. Here, look.” She held up her wrist and he sniffed it gingerly. A bit of tea, yes, a hint of milk and cherries and ginger, but not uncommon scents, those. A very faint...antiseptic. Baby wipes. Just baby wipes. 

“Scent memories,” he mumbled apologetically. “I must have… still been dreaming.” 

“Yes,” she said. She looked around the living room and shook her head. “Did you fall asleep on the couch again?”

“Obviously.” 

“Well, get to your bed,” she chided. “You need rest. Your smell is all off and you have bags under your eyes. Look a right mess, you do.”

“I was going to--sleep with Hamish. After you left.” He hadn’t planned on telling her that. But there was something about Harry, after all, that invited confidences and it wasn’t his fault that she--that she--

“That I what, Sherlock?”

He blinked. “Sorry.”

“You were rambling.” 

“Oh. Where’s Mummy, then?”

“Asleep, I suppose.” Harry allowed him to divert the conversation, though not without a pointed look that said she knew exactly what he was doing. 

“How was talking to John?” she asked, playing along. 

The fogginess lifted a little and he arched an eyebrow at her. “Your brother? Well. He isn’t entirely an idiot.”

“So you liked him?” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. 

“I said not entirely,” Sherlock corrected. “He’s simply-- slightly more entertaining than the general population. Not a fool, by any means.” 

“You liked him a LOT, then.” 

“Shut up. I didn’t mean--” Sherlock made to get up and staggered. “For gods’ sakes,” he said, grasping the arm of the couch. “Confounded leg.” 

Harry was up in an instant. “What’s wrong, then?” she demanded. “Sherlock?”

“Nothing,” he snapped. “My leg. It's been- Doesn't matter. I'm just going to--”

“Not like that, you’re not.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to unleash all manner of abuses upon her. But she set a gentle hand on his shoulder and he simply clenched his teeth and glared at her. 

“I’ll bring him here, if you like,” she said, finally.

“You’ll wake him.”

“He’ll wake up by himself in a few minutes and cry for a bottle if I don’t.” She smiled at the confused expression on Sherlock’s face. “Don’t worry, it’s normal enough. And I swear, Hamish is like clockwork--” As if on cue, a low wail emitated from the radio fastened at her hip and Harry grimaced. “See? Here, I’ll get him and a bottle and you can feed him. Calm you both down.” 

“I can go--”

“Sit DOWN, Sherlock.” 

\----  
The first thing Sherlock noticed was how much louder he seemed. A few short months and Hamish was already a plump, nearly unmanageable riot of limbs and sulky gestures. He blinked sleepily when Harry attempted to deposit him in Sherlock’s lap and then shook his curly head.

“Noooo,” he said, pushing at Sherlock’s chest. 

“It’s your bro--” Harry hesitated. “Your mother, sweetie,” she continued, setting her lip. “Mum, see?”

She tried to give him to Sherlock once more, but he scrunched up his face and began to wail. Sherlock bit his lip, reaching out for son again and Hamish began crying in earnest, until Sherlock dropped back, his face tense. 

“Take him, Harry. He doesn’t--he doesn’t want me, right now.”

She settled him back onto her lap, frowning. “Sherlock, don’t--he’s just sleepy and hungry, is all. He’ll be fine in the morning and you--”

“No,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes. “He won’t. He doesn’t-- recognize my scent.”

“Bullsh--Oh.” She glanced contritely down at Hamish, who was now peacefully nuzzling into her chest as he sucked on his bottle. “Nonsense, I mean. He’ll always recognize you. That’s why the entire brother story was never going to hold, right? Babies recognize their mother’s scents and you smell a bit off right now, sure, but I’m sure it’s just uni and--”

“Stop blathering, will you?” Sherlock snapped. “It’s hardly any of your concern. In fact, it’s all for the better. If he doesn’t realize--.” Sherlock clenched his fingers into his own arm as he spoke, his nails leaving red tracks in the pale skin. "Then he can't ever be ashamed of me," he finished, tightening his grip.

“Oh Christ, you and your dramatics. Stop that. Sher--” She reached for him and Hamish began crying again. “Oh, no, no, Hamish--” She juggled him on her lap and then looked back at Sherlock, who had stopped abusing himself and was now watching the both of them with blank eyes. 

“Put him to bed, Harry. He must be--exhausted.” 

She nodded and stood, cradling Hamish on one hip. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Just--you wait here, all right? Don’t move. Do you hear me?”

Sherlock gave a sharp, jerky nod of acknowledgement. He heard Harry clatter up the stairs, Hamish still fussing at her hip and buried his head in his hands. He would leave, of course, before she returned. Barricade himself in his room, perhaps, because she’d have _questions_ , questions he couldn’t answer… He’d fucked up this time, failed the only person who mattered. But he’d never been the person who could _do_ this, anyways, they’d all known that. Mummy and Mycroft and who was Harry, to say he could, when she didn’t...She hardly knew him. He barely knew himself, anymore, and there was no one to turn to, no one whose help he'd even accept and anyways... his Alpha was long gone, better to accept it, but these foolish, absurd, unfair dreams---

 

_Vanilla and tea and gun-powder and blood. Chemicals and sweat and sun and wool and somewhere, somewhere… the memory of love._

 

\---

When she returned, Sherlock hadn’t moved. A still statue, with his curly head bowed, the dim light and his hands blocking her view of his face.

“Oh Sherlock,” she said, when he didn't stir. “Oh love. What have you done?”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's in between deployments, FYI. Yeah, frustrating, I know. I like to make things frustrating, I guess.

He told her the important things, in the end, because she wouldn't be satisfied with just letting him go. Glossed over the suppressants and his own involvement. He'd berate himself for not simply leaving, later, but in the moment, she was comforting and he was so… _tired_. 

“It wouldn’t work like that, you know,” Harry said, once he'd finished. She eyed the ring glinting on Sherlock’s palm. “Rings-- just symbolic nonsense. Wouldn’t break a soul-bond, taking it. If such things even exist and mind you, I’m not so sure.”

“Well, there’s certainly something wrong with them,” Sherlock said. He clenched the ring in his hand. “Something’s breaking Seb and Gloria and if it’s not that--”

“Seb?” Harry furrowed her brow in distaste. “Is that the charmer I met on the phone?”

“Yes,” Sherlock admitted. Harry’s eyes widened.

“And you’re--doing what then? Sleeping with him? You’re sleeping with a bonded Alpha?” 

“Yes. I told you that already, Harry, do keep up," he said, sagging back into his seat. He'd forgotten how simply infuriating it could be to explain things to average people. But Harry had become fixated on that (trivial) point and she wasn't about to simply let it go. 

“Well, that’s it, you great idiot," she said, ignoring Sherlock's eye-roll. "No, listen. Christ, for a genius, you really are so stupid. ‘Course it wasn’t the ring that broke their bond. It was broken as soon as he took another Omega.”

“Alphas can take multiple Omegas---” he pointed out. 

“Not if they’re not Alpha-primes, they can’t," she said firmly. "And those are rare enough.” 

Rare, but certainly not rare _enough_ , Sherlock couldn’t help but think. He surpressed the image that rose, unbidden, of HIS Alpha with another Omega. Probability suggested that that was the most likely scenario, after all. Easy too, for an Alpha of that nature to find another mate, one not saddled with an abrasive personality, drug addictions and oh yes, a _child_...

“Sherlock?” Harry laid a hesitant arm on his own. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said. He ruthlessly locked away the explicit scene his mind insisted upon conjuring-- _a familiar warmth curled around a pliant Omega, sweet and kind and soft like he wasn’t_ \-- Harry squeezed his arm and he looked down at her hand in some surprise. 

“Seb?” he said, shaking her off. “No, he’s not an Alpha-prime. But he’s had Omegas before and it has never affected his bond.”

“Omegas in heat?” Harry asked pointedly. 

Sherlock hadn’t considered that and suddenly, he was furious. He’d missed so much, while he’d been wallowing in sentiment, been so _useless_ \---

“Look,” she continued. “I’m not saying I believe in all the hocus-pocus soul-mate bullshit, but there’s a lot of things there. Biology, ritual, magic--god knows what. But damn straight, it’ll fuck with you. And no one really understands bonds, anyways, but they’re physical as well as emotional, so--”

Sherlock snapped his fingers. “That’s it then.”

“What’s it?” 

“Wasting,” Sherlock said, leaning forwards. “If it exists, then it might simply be the breaking of a physical connection that was there and the tales of death are simply exaggerations. Wrought by over-active imaginations and village gossips to keep bonds from being purposefully broken, no doubt. One more way for society to prevent couples from seeking happiness outside their narrow confines, I’d presume--”

She paused. “You might have something there,” she admitted. “But I don’t know. You’re right that wasting was always an old wives tale, really, like the soul-bonds. And obviously, many Omegas go through the breeding program”--she grimaced sympathetically--”But--”

“They don’t bond,” Sherlock finished. “And I--I did. Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m--I’m sorry--”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “Be that as it may, biologically, it doesn’t make sense,” he said. “None of it. Hormonal attraction taken to extremes, perhaps, but other than that, I fail to see how bonding in the breeding program is possible. We didn’t have enough time for our scents to imprint. Seb and Gloria must have been raised together, as such couples are, so of course my scent would begin their bond deterioration. Stupid, to not have seen it before. But as for myself--”

“What I don’t understand,” Harry said. “Is how it should matter to you. Do you want Seb for yourself, then?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said. Was he imagining it or had she relaxed, just a little?

“Not worth it,” she said (and yes, she sounded distinctly happier). “You deserve better, is all,” she added hastily. “If a half of what you’ve told me is true, you should leave him. There’s other Alphas, sweetie, Alphas that would love to have you--”

“I don’t WANT an Alpha,” Sherlock snapped. “For god’s sakes, is that all you paltry people think about? Bonding? If I could be rid of all of this useless--” he gestured vaguely down his body, “ _Transport_ , I would do it in an instant.”

“Then why?” she persisted. 

“I just told you,” he said, rising unsteadily from his chair. “You have the facts, now put them together. But if Hamish is upset by them--” He clenched his eyes shut. 

“Hamish…” she said and he could practically feel the cogs turning. “Sherlock Holmes, you’re not on those bloody suppressents, are you?”

He'd been rambling. Talk too much and you got caught in the lie. But there was no point in denying it now. He looked at a fixed point above Harry's head and took a deep breath. 

“Yes.”

Harry rose and he could see instantly from her eyes that she was going to be tiresome. “But those will fuck you up, they will. You’ll never be the same and you know they cause all sorts of problems--”

“You’re one to talk," he spat. 

She faltered. “Sorry?”

“Hypocrites,” Sherlock ranted. “All of you. You think I can’t smell it on you, Harry? None of your scents are your own and they were, once… Vanilla, cherry, but they’re fading. There’s something covering them.” He stalked forwards until he was nearly nose to nose with her and her eyes…

He groaned. “I cannot. Not with you. Alpha hormones. Why? Your Omega mate? I should have realized then--”

“Realized what, Sherlock?” she said. Her hands gripped nervously at her skirt, but she didn’t break his gaze. “What? Go on.”

“You do have an Omega mate. And you’re an Omega. So you’ve been procuring Alpha hormones from somewhere, illegally, no doubt, and--”

To his surprise, she seemed to relax a little. “Don’t do as I do, I suppose,” she said. “There isn’t-- much choice, is there? Sometimes.”

“No. But you’ve been lucky. Hamish still responds to you, something to do with your cocktail, no doubt but I… I have no scent. Not anymore.” 

Harry hesitated and then nodded firmly, as if having reached a decision.”

“I’m going to call John.”

“What earthly good is that supposed to do?”

She shrugged. “He’s a doctor, maybe…”

“No. Absolutely not. Harry--” he said,

“Sherlock, it might help, look at you--you’re barely walking--”

“I forbid it,” Sherlock snarled, realizing even as he did so that his reaction was out of proportion with the statement. Just her bloody brother, anyways, what did he care-He took a step forwards and would have fallen if Harry hadn’t caught him.

“Your leg,” she started.

“Don’t,” he warned. The effect was rather spoiled by how heavily he was leaning on her and she rolled her eyes.

“Fine. I won’t. But how long has it been,” she asked. “Since you took your pills?”

Sherlock cast his mind around, but it was more than a little fuzzy. He thought he’d taken them that morning, but perhaps--

“Today, probably,” he said, because it was as good of an answer as any. “But Seb isn’t here, so it hardly matters--”

"No, you didn't," Harry said. "Don't lie to me, Sherlock Holmes, you smell like a bloody harem."

Sherlock managed to convey his precise opinion of that with a twist of his lips and she groaned. "Christ. You idiot. You absolute--fucking--idiot.” She pushed him into his chair and knelt. “Sherlock? Listen to me. You’re going to go into heat, okay? And it’s going to be a nasty business. I’ll call Mycroft--”

“Don’t,” he suggested. She ignored him.

“And your mother,” she said. “And I’ll tell them to stay away. But you--let’s get you to your room, all right?” 

Sherlock nodded and eyed the stairs warily. She huffed.

“Oh, don’t try it. I’ll help. Bloody tosser.” 

\--

It was only after Sherlock was safely ensconced in his room (daylight was just visible out the windows, when had that happened?) that Harry's eyes fell on the phone. If she was being honest, she'd been thinking about it for hours now. And it wasn't that she had any moral qualms, really. Because Sherlock was an idiot, but--if Mycroft were to find out--she bit her lip and wrestled with herself. It was really such a bad idea to get involved…

As if she wasn't involved enough already.  
\--

“You know, I don’t really have time for this,” John said, as soon as he answered. “Not at all, really. Family emergency, is it? Again?"

“Yeah, well, last I checked, you’re not on base for another hour,” Harry pointed out. “So, if I know you, you’re just running about with your third cup of tea and toast between your teeth." 

“I think I’m going to go mad, Harry, I swear.”

“You can talk to me for a moment," she insisted. "What if it really IS a family emergency?"

"Considering you're the only family I have--"

"JOHN. I could be dying, right now, and how would you feel, your only sister…"

John blew out a frustrated breath. “Fine. Quickly, then. I need to work too, you know.” 

“You know Sherlock?” she said. 

“The kid I was talking to earlier?" John asked, through a mouthful of what was no doubt dry toast. "Sure.” 

“He’s been on suppressants. And then he forgot to take them.”

Silence. Then--

“Fuck. Well, that’s going to be a nasty few days all right. I hate to say it--but does he have any more of them?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted.

“Well, see if he does, weaning him off of them will be easier on his body," John said. There was crash and then John swore under his breath.

"John, pay attention here."

"I just dropped--Okay. If he doesn't have any more, then does he have anyone?” 

They both knew precisely what that meant. An Alpha, willing to get Sherlock through his heat without bonding. It wouldn’t have been an unusual arrangement by any means: sex with an Omega in heat was still considered a bit of a prize for any Alpha and, then too, an Alpha would be the best deterrent for anyone looking to take advantage of a vulnerable Omega. In theory, at least. 

Harry huffed disgustedly. “No one I’m about to call.”

“Fine. Do I-- no, I don’t want to know. Just get any Alphas out of the house, then, don’t care how you do it. Other than that--food? Water? Er...toys, I guess." A clatter and Harry winced. John didn't appear perturbed.

"Hang on," he said, as if coming to a realization. "Why are you calling _me_ for this?”

“Well, I thought-- if you could talk to him--he seemed to like you--”

She could practically feel his glare through the phone. 

“We talked about this, Harry. I’m not looking, not for that--”

“Well, maybe it’s not about you,” she snapped. “Maybe, he’s a lonely person who needs someone, ever thought about that?”

“There are plenty of lonely Alphas about, sure you could do better than calling me,” John pointed out. “Ones that aren’t, you know, about to be sent halfway about the globe and all.”

“Unbonded Alpha-primes?” she asked. “How many of those do you think I know? The bonded ones are always just looking to add to their harem and an normal Alpha wouldn’t work, not when the arse who left him was a prime and Christ, all you do is gripe. I care about him, I’m not suggesting he bond with you, you inconsiderate, sulking, whiny--”

“ALRIGHT,” John barked. He sighed. “Okay. Fine. You--do what I said for him, all right? And if he needs someone--”

“I’ll have him call you,” she said, instantly cheerful again. 

“No,” John said. “No, hang on, I’m not on vacation here.”

“ _John_ \--” she said, again.

“Evening,” he said. “I'll probably be free then. You’re lucky there’s fuck-all to do at the moment. Allergies, Harry. Bloody allergies and the flu, Christ, if I had a pound for all the flu cases--”

“It’s almost like you want someone to get hurt, John, really,” she reproached. “Besides, reckon you’ll have enough of all of that soon. You're getting deployed abroad--when?"

"Next week," John said. "And I can't tell you…It's awful, but it'll be a relief."

Harry was silent. 

"I worry about you," she said finally. "I do--"

"Goodbye, Harry," he said and she knew that was the end of that conversation. 

"I'll talk to you soon," she promised. 

\---


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, yet again! And also all the dawdling, but this is important to the storyline, I swear it... Also, I'm looking to do a few shorter but quicker chapters this month, so the length is a bit less than usual. 
> 
> Also, fayfayfay dedicated [ this beautiful Omega!Sherlock fic ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1264423) to me and then I only discovered it long after the fact, because clearly I don't know how to use AO3 yet. It's the Sherlock POV of the series of hers that I mentioned earlier and it's perfect <3.

Mycroft showed up anyways, of course.

The twat never knew when to keep his nose out of other people’s business and besides, he would never have missed an opportunity to chastise his little brother. 

“You’re quite pale,” he observed, leaning casually on the doorframe (a safe distance away, because even Mycroft Holmes wasn’t immune to so base a temptation and that _that_ was the way disaster lurked. It would be unacceptable, of course, to have mated siblings in this modern age, but as it happened, biology cared very little for social convention. They wouldn’t have been the first family to have to sweep such a scandal under the carpet. But Mycroft was nothing if not careful.) 

“You're not in heat,” he said now, sniffing delicately at the air. His spine slouched all of a millimeter in his relief. “Not yet.”

“How very perceptive of you.” Sherlock said. He rolled over onto his side, taking his blankets with him, and peered disgustedly at his brother. “I believe I asked you explicitly not to come. If you simply must disregard all my wishes, the least you could do is to not drone on about the obvious….”

“It doesn’t strike you as strange?” Mycroft made a show of disdainfully examining his umbrella as he spoke. 

“Is it interesting?” Sherlock asked politely. “The brolly,” he clarified, just in case. “You seem fascinated. But then, you always were fixated on the most unimportant things....” 

Mycroft sighed and raised his head, finally deigning to meet the accusing stare of his baby brother. “If only you paid as much attention to your surroundings as you did your insults, brother dearest. I always did say your habit of underestimating people would hurt you one day—“

“Are you lecturing me on egotism? How very ironic," Sherlock sniffed. “Isn't it you who likes to talk about 'goldfish'?" 

“That,” Mycroft said. “Is simply fact, for me. Let’s not forget that I am the smart one.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “So then I’m a goldfish.”

“No, you’re far too much trouble,” Mycroft said dryly. “Perhaps… one of those Siamese fighting fish. Flashy and aggressive.”

“Touching, I’m sure,” Sherlock snapped. 

“The proof is here,” Mycroft indicated Sherlock’s spread body with the tip of his dratted brolly. Sherlock curled up, instinctively shielding his body from this Alpha, the one who wasn't _his_. But he despised himself almost instantly for the small show of irrationality ( _vulnerability_ ) and it was barely a few seconds before he stretched carelessly, pointedly, back out.

Too late. Mycroft tilted his head in a manner that was both a trifle apologetic and entirely condescending. “You’re sick, are you? But it’s not heat… Think Sherlock, surely even you aren’t this _dull_.”

“I forgot my pill,” Sherlock said. “Since I’m sure Harry told you…”

Mycroft raised an affronted eyebrow. “As if she would have to _tell_ me…” 

Sherlock refrained from biting off the caustic reply that came automatically to his lips, the one that pointed out that Mycroft would almost certainly have stopped the drug abuse if he had known about it. But that was Mycroft to the core, of course, always trying to seem omniscient and it was better, really, to let him live under the delusion that Sherlock believed him to be as all-knowing as he claimed. 

“Oh very well,” Sherlock said. “Let’s hear the theory then. I’m sure you have one, else you wouldn’t have risked coming down here to begin with.”

“I never theorize,” Mycroft drawled. 

“Now you’re just being difficult…”

“Sebastian Wilkes,” Mycroft interrupted. “First-born child of one of the wealthiest banking families in the land. Engaged, I hear, to one Gloria Scott. Not a very old family, but wealthy enough, I dare say.” 

Sherlock flopped over onto his stomach and mumbled something that managed to be simultaneously both unintelligible and dismissive into his pillow. 

“Strange isn’t it,” Mycroft continued, unperturbed, “That an Alpha such as that should jeopardize his bond. He is narcissistic, certainly, but having an Omega is not to be taken lightly, not anymore.” 

He was right, of course. There were far more Alphas than Omegas. That and the fact that Alpha-primes often took multiple mates meant that there was rarely a shortage of Alphas in the breeding camps. Wealthy Alphas from established families never needed to worry about being mated against their will, but, conversely, there was always the threatened shame of being saddled with an Omega from a lowly family or, worse, a Beta. 

Still, this was all old news and why Mycroft felt the need to harp on it now was anyone’s guess. Sherlock pressed a hand to his pounding head, his patience long since worn out. “Get to the point, Mycroft, or stop wasting my time.” 

“Mr. Wilkes,” Mycroft said, every bit as glacially as before, “Cheats on his promised mate every chance he gets. He is not an Alpha-prime, so why risk it? Just think, Sherlock. Illegal drugs, the risks of a broken bond, all for casual sex? Why not just find a pretty Beta, if he’s offering to suppress the Omegas’ heats anyways?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said, “And furthermore, I don’t care. Mycroft, I have a headache and I’m rather sore, so if you could just---“

“What makes Omegas out of heat different then Betas?” Mycroft asked, merciless. “Think, for once in your life. Omegas can’t produce hormones out of heat, he clearly doesn’t want to bond, so therefore---“

Sherlock sat up, finally paying attention. “We can carry children,” he said. “We’re _fertile_. “ His pale eyes flicked over to his brother. “But no, that doesn’t make sense. If the pills prevent pregnancy—“

Mycroft leaned on his umbrella and waited patiently. Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Oh, oh of course, _obvious_... But then… how? And why? ” 

“The first is obvious as well,” Mycroft said. “As to the second--Lines of succession, Sherlock, that’s all it has ever been about. The majority of the oldest families in the land are Alphas and Omegas, but not all Alphas and Omegas are from old families—it’s why the breeding program is able to exist. But it does result in a certain…dilution… of the blood.” 

“I still don’t understand,” Sherlock admitted grudgingly. 

“The Wilkes asked for your hand,” Mycroft said. “After you—After Hamish. I did mention an Alpha, but you were far too spoiled to listen to me. As it is, perhaps it is for the best. There are very few Alphas who would take an already bred Omega. I should have been suspicious and I was not.” 

“I still don’t—“

“Do try to think, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped. He turned to leave, clearly at the end of his patience. “It will do your underutilized brain cells some good. And do take care of that leg,” he added, as a parting shot.

How had he-- Mycroft. Meddling git. 

_Think_ \--All very well for Mycroft to say, but Sherlock's head protested vigorously at merely being moved. The answer was unbearably obvious, he knew it, far below his usual capabilities-- He groaned as yet another sharp pain shot through his body (his leg, now, awful thing) and sank down so he could bury his face in his pillow. 

Whatever it was, it could certainly wait until he felt a little less like a train wreck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been very busy and I'm a generally awful person with the internet and also forgetfulness and I'm full of excuses, but basically: If there's anything wandering about that you created/wanted me to see/had a question about and you attempted to contact me about it but I never responded: It's either AO3 or me being an absolute idiot. Drop me another note and, if relevant, a link, I'll get back to you. 
> 
> Much love to all of you who're so patient with me and so supportive of this unwieldy monster of a story. I never saw it going quite where it did and that has created all sorts of problems, I have no doubt <3


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DID SOMEONE SAY 2000 WORD UPDATE? (unedited, mind you)
> 
> Christ, I'm sorry, and what's worse, I still can't promise a regular update schedule, but I'm going to try harder and here's 2000 words of schmoop to make up for all of it.

It was against John’s better judgment to call that evening. Harry had not called him back after all, despite her insistence earlier. Typical of her, to make mountains out of molehills. She wanted the best for him, of course and, in her mind, dwelling on the past was exactly the opposite of what was best for him. She was probably right too, though it meant fuck-all to him. He couldn’t just let it go so easily, not like that. And so what, if he still thought about the boy, sometimes.

Alright, more than that. 

Especially at hours like this, when he came home, weary and bored and thought... What, exactly? 

That he’d like some cute, posh little Omega waiting at home, to cook him dinner and dazzle him with charm and brilliance? What earthly good would that do? It wasn’t as if he could keep an Omega like that. That one would be used to better things and John wasn’t exactly rich. Probably never would be. 

But he’d been so sharp, brilliant even in heat. What would he have been like out of it? 

No, that was no good either. He’d never know. Didn’t even know his damn name. He was creating a fantasy, a fucking _lifetime_ , from a few small moments and now _that_ was an exercise in futility if there ever was one. 

It would be better, when he left. Something else to fixate on, occupy his time. He was running from it, maybe, and there was a little part of him that wondered if it wasn’t a bit cowardly, not to even look for--

No, useless again. 

He couldn’t do anything, not after what had happened. That Omega wouldn’t want to see him, he’d been told as much and, well, why would he? Best not forget that he’d been forced into the liaison. God, it made John heartsick when he thought about it like that. That undernourished body, those fucking eyes. He’d tried to be gentle, he had, but it killed him that he didn’t remember.

_Did I take your hand? Hold you? Tell you you were fucking perfect? Would it have made a difference to you, any difference at all?_

Jesus Christ, Harry was right. This wasn’t healthy. That Omega was long gone and John was still here and no, he needed to stop this. 

Maybe it was time… to move on. A year and half, pretty long in the scheme of things. Especially for a one-night encounter. Maybe he could… he could call. Wouldn’t mean anything. Just a medical call, to help… _Sherlock_ , was it? 

Ridiculous toff name.

But as a favor to Harry…. 

And Sherlock was, well, Sherlock reminded him of that boy, a bit. Same age, probably. Affluent. Definitely a bit snottier, mind you, harsher too. And he had…a child. 

Sherlock, then. 

\---

 

Sherlock blinked blearily at the phone. Harry had left it next to him 

_In case you need anything, I can’t find yours—_

_**Who the hell am I supposed to call if you don’t have your phone, Harry, don’t be tedious…Harry?**_ )

It had been ringing for a rather long time now, he suspected. Wasn’t sure. It had only begun irritating him a minute or so ago and he had yet to summon the energy to answer it. No, he should. It was probably just Mycroft. But he was surprisingly clear-headed, for being this far in heat and it was exhausting and messy, but also just so very dull, lying here. 

Ah. 2 missed calls, one voicemail. He stabbed haphazardly at the buttons until…

_Harry, it’s John. Since you, you know, implied you’d be calling. Guess it wasn’t that important, then? Call me if you or Sherlock needs anything. Right. Later, then._

John. Oh, yes. That John. 

_Not my Alpha_ a voice in his mind whined. _Not mine, not mine, not mine_

And yet….Sherlock squirmed at the sound of his voice. The slight impatience, the clip of command. His own name, the middle syllable slurred over and misplaced. Well. 

He’d said… to call. This Alpha. 

_Not mine, not mine, not mine_

 

\--

“Jo—John?”

“Yes? Who…Sherlock. How are you feeling?”

Sherlock blinked in annoyance. “Presumably, if you’re calling, then you’re aware—“ 

“It was just a question,” John said. “You know, those awkward space-fillers people use when they’re talking to an Omega in the _middle of heat_ who they’ve never met before—“

“Whom,” Sherlock managed. 

“Sorry?” John said.

“ _Whom_ they’ve never met before—“

“Christ, you’re impossible,” John said. “No, no, I didn’t mean---Sorry, I don’t know…Must be miserable.” 

“Hot,” Sherlock said. Which wasn’t quite true. He was alternatively frozen and sweating….Though that wasn’t a normal heat symptom, was it? The pills had no doubt wrecked his system. “Wet,” he continued. “Sticky, sore, desperately uncomfortable---Shall I go on? Oh yes. Irritated.” 

“No,” John said. “No, I’m assuming that just about covers it.”

“Not that you’d know,” Sherlock said. He bit back a moan as a rush of fluid ran down his thighs. 

“Not that I’d know,” John admitted. “Still. If I can help—“

This was useless. Who was John, anyways? And what on earth could he possibly do…Just another Alpha, after all. Not his. Not the one he wanted. 

“Oh.” John’s voice softened and Sherlock realized he must have been talking out loud. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he said, in that same, infuriatingly understanding tone. “It’s going to be bad for a bit. What do you need?” 

Sherlock whimpered into the phone, unable to communicate his need any other way and then immediately clenched his teeth.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he spat. “I—“

“Perfectly normal reaction,” John said. “Alpha voice, you know—“ He trailed off. 

“It hurts,” Sherlock accused. This wasn’t right, he told himself, firmly. This wasn’t his to have, not the right—

“Do you… need something?” John asked, again. 

“You,” Sherlock said automatically and then started. “I was not implying…”

“Hush,” John said. Sherlock could hear his breath, uneven now, and he couldn't help himself. He imagined that breath, drifting across his body, exhaling on his chest, his belly, between his spread legs, and let out a stifled sound that was very nearly a whimper. 

“Oh, Christ. All right—All right. Sherlock. I haven’t, not for a while. But what do you need?” 

“John? I--”

“Tell me what you need, Sherlock.”

“You. " It slipped past him again. “You—no, not you—“

“I want to touch you,” John said. “I shouldn’t, but I do and god help me, it’s not even me you’re after, is it—“ 

The last of Sherlock’s defenses crumbled. “No. You. I need you.” 

Hesitation. Too long and Sherlock’s cheeks were burning with embarrassment. Foolish of him and better to hang up than let this…. But John was speaking again.

“Describe it to me,” he said and the newly clinical note to his voice was almost disappointing but—a relief, really. 

“It’s just…increased vascular blood,” Sherlock started. “And localized increase in blood pressure. Induced by—arousal.”

“Vasocongestion,” John said, now sounding slightly amused. 

“Yes, yes, exactly,” Sherlock said. 

“Causing…plasma seepage. You know. Natural lubrication,” John said. “Quite a lot, I’d imagine.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, swallowing. “Yes. Male omegas—“

“Produce more in heat by necessity, I know.”

Sherlock trailed his fingers up his thighs, swirling them in the wetness. ‘’It’s not comfortable,” he said, again. “Particularly when…”

“You’re alone?” John suggested. 

Sherlock bristled. “I don’t need anyone,” he said. “I don’t.” He rolled over, away from the wet bed sheets and lay flat on his stomach, frowning into the phone. 

“You’re pretty clear-headed for heat, I’ll give you that,” John said. “Not quite yourself, I’d imagine, but you’re not…Hmph. Odd, really.” 

“Disappointed?” Sherlock asked. “Of course you are, did you imagine I’d be begging for your cock by the time you called? Wriggling about in my own juices _help me John_.” 

The sarcasm was, admittedly, spoiled a bit by the actual break in his voice. 

“Quite frankly, I’m glad you’re not,” John said. “It’d be a right mess if you were, just a bunch of frustration on either end, not worth it, believe me, and with you bonded and me—well—not free, as it were, no, not a good idea—“ 

“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself,” Sherlock said. “And failing.” 

If he was flirting, just a little, he was blaming it on the haziness of hormones. But then again--

“I’m not whatever you’re imagining,” Sherlock said. He felt the need to let this Alpha know, that he wasn’t untouched, unclaimed. “I’m not some quivering, pretty little Omega… “

“I know you’re not. I do,” John hastened to reassure him. “I just thought, if I could help—“

“I’m older,” Sherlock continued over him. “Almost 20—“

“Ancient, you are.“

“Long face and skinny limbs—“

“Never had a thing for horses, you know, but I could develop one. Hell, if they had your charm--” 

John wasn’t understanding and it was far too easy to slip into amiable banter with him, but some instinct made Sherlock push, even if he’d regret it, later, because this Alpha needed to know—

“My personality is abrasive in the extreme and I have an affinity for danger and a short temper, particularly when it comes to those less intelligent than I, which is everyone—“

“So you said. And Byronic heroes are in style, have been since the 1700s—“

Sherlock’s already thin patience snapped utterly. “You do not understand,” he snarled. “I’m an addict, as you’re clearly aware, and I’ve had a CHILD, John. I’ve belonged to another Alpha, my skin is scarred with---bloody stretch marks—“ He pressed a hand flat to his belly, feeling the raised skin and swallowed. “You’re flirting with me and you seem to conveniently forget—“

“Don’t,” John said. “Don’t, for Christ's sake...”

“Across my stomach,” Sherlock said, ruthlessly. “They look quite awful in the light and they feel awful in the dark and--” He paused. “I wouldn’t give them up,” he said. “Not for you.”

“Not for anyone,” John said and Sherlock started at the venom in his voice. “Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to do, what sort of hormonal—chaos-- is making you think I require this sort of information—“

“Don’t get attached,” Sherlock said. “Not to me and especially not to whatever image you have of me in your mind, John. I’m not that.”

He felt no better for saying it, but it had to be said. Of course it did. John had everything—army doctor and Alpha-prime, charming and most likely handsome—

 _Everything except status and wealth_ said the Mycroft that inhabited his brain. _Of course he doesn’t mind, Sherlock, what’s the responsibility of a baby compared to having a mate from the Holmes bloodline?_

“I suppose we’re done here,” Sherlock said. He closed his eyes, pain exploding behind his temples. “If you’d like to leave the phone—“ 

“No,” John said and his voice managed to drown out even Mycroft’s in its intensity. “No, we are not done, Sherlock. I know, all right? I know you think I’m an idiot and you’re right, I probably am, but it doesn’t matter, because you’re—Hell. Anyone would be lucky, if you let them even try to keep up with you and that brilliant brain of yours and I bet…I bet…if your Alpha was there...”

“Yes, well, he’s not,” Sherlock said. “So that’s a rather--- useless—“

“God Sherlock, fuck it,” John said. “I don’t know why the hell he left, but if I could be there—No, fuck, I shouldn’t, I’m sorry—“

“Tell me,” Sherlock demanded. John was worked up and inarticulate but he believed what he was saying, that much was obvious. “Tell me.” 

“If I could, I’d kiss you,” John said. “I’d kiss you all over, every damned stretch mark and scar, and if you let me keep you, you and your baby, the both of you--I’d do that too, all right?” 

“It's quite far from 'all right"," Sherlock said. “You're leaving tomorrow, so this is all highly theoretical." 

"No, it's not," John said. "Not--I haven't felt this way since---"

"All right," Sherlock cut in.

"Sorry?"

Sherlock swallowed.

"I said "All right", did I not? Come home, John. And keep your promise." 

\--

\---


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for abusive relationships and violence. Also, I'm going to take this opportunity to apologize for the editing on this chapter and the next. I'm about suffocated in work at the moment, but I didn't want to post just this one (you'll likely see why), so I definitely skimped on the editing. Feel free to give me edits in the comments.

The heat lasted for two days and the fogginess for three more, but the moment Sherlock regained his mental capabilities, he was abruptly furious. At Mycroft, of course, for wallowing in his omniscience and refusing to share crucial knowledge--though that was hardly new, was it? 

Well, possibly it was John, who deserved his anger, because…He wasn’t quite sure, yet. But managing to pull such a frightful statement of sentiment from Sherlock deserved some anger, for certain, even if the mechanics of ‘why’ escaped him. 

Not that it mattered.

John was gone, which was likely for the best. And Mycroft, as was his wont, had disappeared entirely into the stifling cesspool of the government, unlikely to emerge until he was most _un_ wanted. 

At least there was still one Alpha left to bear the brunt of his rage. Hardly satisfying, because he’d never expected anything else from that one, but Sherlock had been fuming for the better part of two days, now, and, by this point, his rant didn’t require input so much as it required an audience. 

\----

“You deserve an award,” Sherlock announced, upon returning to uni and finding the chosen perpetrator conveniently seated on Sherlock’s own bed. “You’re a far greater bastard than even I’d imagined. Surely that takes talent.” 

Sebastian didn’t so much as look up from his phone. 

Sherlock raised his voice, undeterred. “Talent of a mediocre and petty variety, granted. But even I am not so far out of my mind as to suggest that you have any measure of actual intelligence, so undoubtedly petty is the best you can do.”

Seb made a show of stretching. 

Lazy. 

Indifferent. 

Calculated to infuriate.

Surprisingly effective, all the same.

“Do you find yourself amusing?” Sherlock spat, his carefully crafted speech deteriorating as his temper rose. “Ah, of course you do. You think you’re _clever_ , but you’re not, you’re not even among the bottom dregs in a cesspool of incompetent criminals. You’re stupid, plodding, slow. Petty. Unable to pull off anything but a dirty manipulation and shoddily at that and yet you’re quite smug. Though I suppose you ought to be, why it’s almost an accomplishment, isn’t it? Considering your non-existent brain capacity—“ 

At that, Seb let out a put-upon sigh and squinted at Sherlock. “Is it that time of month or something?” 

“This has nothing to do with my biology and everything to do with you being a brainless, obtuse, _insufferable_ bastard,” Sherlock snapped.

“You should apply for a job as a thesaurus,” Seb said, still feinting indifference, though the twitch of his right eye gave him away. “I’m sure there’s some freak show out there that’s hiring.” 

“Half-witted, simple-minded, imbecilic, dumb, asinine, moronic-- I’d continue, but presumably the lobotomy that removed your entire brain left you only with a small capacity for stereotypical insults and zero capacity to understand anything coming from the mouth of someone with less testosterone than your thick-witted self—“ 

Sherlock paused reluctantly for breath and only then noted Seb’s repellent face, gone slack with shock. 

Oh, so very satisfying. He was going to store that look of flabbergasted confusion on the front door of his mind palace—no. It’d be the doormat, so he could wipe his shoes triumphantly on it every time he entered---

 

Seb blinked his way back to the present

“Didn’t catch all of that—“ he started.

“No doubt,” Sherlock muttered. And then jumped as Seb unexpectedly crashed a fist into his nightstand---well, not so unexpectedly, he always had a poorly concealed violent streak, refuge of the mentally weak and those eye twitches always did give him awa---

“Fucking hell, you Omegas are such bloody drama queens,” Seb said. He tried for an unamused laugh, but it came out choked and furious. “Gloria won’t stop calling and now you—Well. Just be a good boy and take your little temper tantrum somewhere else, won’t yo—Oww.” 

Bad idea, really. 

The slipper flopped next to the bed, leaving a red stamp on Seb’s cheek and bright blue pills scattered across the floor. Seb’s nostrils flared with rage and Sherlock reconsidered. 

Not a bad idea, after all.

A truly _terrible_ idea. 

“My apologies,” Sherlock said, stretching his lips in a strangled approximation of a grin. “I was aiming for your nose, but I never was the best of shots.”

“What the FUCK was that?” Seb demanded, rising. “You don’t want them, fine, I’ll give them to someone who appreciates them. But don’t you—“

“Appreciates them?” It was rather ironic, all told, how very _alive_ Seb’s death threat made him feel. 

_Adrenaline,_ his rational mind noted clinically. _You’re a danger-addict, Sherlock Holmes._

“Yes, appreciates them,” Seb said, finally. “And consider yourself lucky, buddy. If I wasn’t feeling rather nice today, you’d be half a pulp by now—“

Sherlock dismissed the concern— _transparent, really, once you knew why_ —with a wave of his hand. “Oh no, I wouldn’t worry. I checked, of course. I’m hardly pregnant. So if you’d like to hit me, don’t hold yourself back on account of your frightful spawn, which doesn’t exist, and, if humanity has a modicum of self-preservation left, hopefully never will.” 

_You idiot, stop baiting him_

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sebastian said. He took a step forwards and that voice in the back of Sherlock’s brain had gone remarkably shrill, all of a sudden. 

_shutupshutup you FOOL shut up_

“No use denying it, it’s perfectly obvious. Should have been from the beginning, of course, stupid of me. Well. Never mind.”

Seb continued to advance and Sherlock unconsciously retreated, even as his rant went uninterrupted. 

“They delay heat. Not prevent it, no, but not sugar pills either-- Even the dullest person would catch on eventually when they went into heat every month. One hopes. So, delayed—you gain an Omega’s trust and then, when their heat does come--well, that’s not your call, is it? They forgot to take a pill and who could blame you? And if the Omega doesn’t quite believe you, no matter, heat suppressants are an illegal substance, who would say anything to the authorities?”

_Leave, you fool, you’ve given away the only protection you had. If you’re not pregnant, why would he care what happens to you? Why would anyone? He’s never been stable, you’ve known that. You’ve been willfully ignoring the signs, of course, but you’re not stupid, Sherlock, you see even when you don’t want to---_

“So a very little bit of talent, as I said. Not much, but enough to protect your slimy skin. How unfortunate for you that I went into heat over break. Not that I’d have carried your spawn for any length of time, but it saves me from a highly unhygienic, untested and illegal procedure—“ 

“What are you on about—Did you forget a pill? Is that why you’re being hysterical?“ Seb was no doubt attempting for condescending. But the words came out desperate, confirming Sherlock’s suspicions. 

“I wouldn’t forget,” Sherlock hissed. “Not a pill, not in this case. I know all too well the consequences of an unintended heat and I do not forget Sebastian, not when the alternative is carrying your seething hell-spawn.”

The solid surface of the door hit his back and Sherlock blinked in surprise.

Seb’s face was inches from his own. “Not my fault your biology’s freaky, is it?” 

“My biology is perfectly fine,” Sherlock retorted. “One of the few things that works altogether too well, in fact. It’s yours that’s the problem, isn’t it?” 

 

_Now you’ve done it_

“Does Gloria know you’re the one who’s impotent? Or did you not realize that either?” 

_For god’s sakes Sherlock, have a modicum of self-preservation_

“Oh, I see,” Sherlock said, his fingers scrabbling for the door knob. “You did know. You just hadn’t accepted it. Pathetic, really, the things one denies, even to one’s self—well, I’ll just leave you here, then, to wallow in your—“ 

He registered Seb’s fist before it hit him squarely in the abdomen, once and then again and he was on the floor, doubled up with the pain, his brain filtering out the abuses from Seb’s mouth in favor of the point of rational thought left. 

_Leave you idiot_

_I can’t, I can’t move--_

He’d been quick, once, but he was off, _emotionally compromised_ , Mycroft’s unforgivably rational voice offered. Sherlock registered with a dulled sense of apprehension that Seb had grabbed something, the microscope, oh, how utterly _fitting_ , ironic, even---

_Indeed, sentiment might be the literal death of you this time baby brother._

 

\---


	22. Chapter 22

“Name?”

“She’lock.”

“How many fingers do you see?”

“3.”

“Where are you?”

“Uh—“

“Good enough.”  


Sherlock had half-expected to see Harry when he opened his eyes, but even with a blow to the head, it’d be difficult to mistake this crisp, curvaceous woman for his blunt, overbearing nanny.

He’d give so much to have it be Harry. 

Instead, his bedside companion was one of Mycroft’s newest minions, whose name forever escaped him. Her presence was at least mildly reassuring, however, in that it indicated that Mycroft himself was far too busy to visit. 

“Paramedics said you were lucky,” she said, now. “No injury to your brain, at least. You had a severe blow there. Awful bleeding. Head wounds do that, you realize.”

“Hmmm.” 

“Cannot say the same for your abdomen. That was blunt force trauma too. But they haven’t got the CTs on your liver and spleen yet. Dreadfully slow around here.”

“Ah—“ 

“No, don’t try to talk.” There was no arguing with that voice. “I was simply told you’d want to know as soon as you were oriented. It took 2 days, you realize.” 

Her tone implied that the wait was entirely his fault.

“You’ve been blathering nonsense at me the entire while.”

“Wha—“

“I said ‘don’t talk’. Go to sleep.” 

He’d never quite thought that THIS would be the way he’d end up back in the hospital.  
\----

He couldn’t have said how long it was before he awoke again. The devastatingly efficient minion had left after her brief report and the next thing Sherlock knew, it was dark and an unfamiliar voice was swimming in and out of his focus.

“Hey. Hey kid---“ 

Sherlock grudgingly turned his head. Only to immediately groan as a blinding wave of pain hit his face. 

“Yeah, hold up there. Don’t move—“

“Do I look like I can?” Sherlock said. Or tried to. What came out was more of an indignant wheeze.

“Did quite the number on you, not going to deny it.” The scent by his bed shifted—beta, clearly, rusted steel and stale coffee, the sharp familiarity of blood and boredom—

“Here. Sit up.” Something cold pushed against his limp hand and Sherlock blinked tentatively.

“Water,” the voice offered. “Here. Have it. Christ. Can you hold it?”

“You’re a rather bad nursemaid,” Sherlock managed, after a moment. He grasped the cup gratefully. 

“Not my job, is it?” The man settled on his chair, next to Sherlock’s bed. 

Hospital bed. 

Sherlock ran his eyes over the man next to him. 

“You’re a police officer. ” 

“No kidding.”

Sherlock continued, more for the relief of confirming his undamaged mental abilities than anything else.

“Sergeant, to be precise. You want a promotion and you’re long overdue for it. But you won’t get it. You take the jobs no one else wants, out of a misguided sense of justice, no doubt. Not to mention the toll your increasingly difficult marriage takes on you. She’s cheating, you realize.”

The man started. “What on—Did you make that up?”

Sherlock attempted to wave his hand and succeeded only in slopping water down his front.

“Your ID is hanging out of your pocket.” 

He pointed as he reached for the offered napkin. 

“Your age, profession, and rank are rather clear. As for the promotion, naturally you want one. And you’re overdue, because, while you’re younger than you look, you’re still old enough to be an inspector and you clearly work grueling hours—oh don’t look like that, simple enough to tell overtime, the coffee stains on your trousers are days old and the trousers themselves are uncomfortable, far too loose. They fit you once, no doubt, so you’ve lost weight, indicating stress over a period of time, and you’d have changed if you’d gone home, so you haven’t---Long hours, then, and you’ve let yourself go.”

“My wife—“ 

Sherlock settled for pointing, this time. Marginally less expressive, but magnitudes less painful. 

“Story of your home life is told in your shirt—but it wasn’t always like that. Someone cared, once, enough to sew up the torn hem on your right cuff, but doesn’t care enough to fix the more recent tearing on the left side. You hardly look like you sew and if you did, you’d have fixed it by now. So your wife did the sewing, most likely. But something must have changed, then, if she hasn’t noticed the newer tears. Not you-- everything else is dirty, but you wear your ring on a chain about your neck. Might easily have made an excuse to take it off, leave it at home, if you were so inclined, but you made an effort to keep it on, despite your job. Looks like it’s your wife who has new priorities, priorities unrelated to the household. Might be any number of things, but considering your long hours and general unkemptness, I’d say she has a new love interest altogeth—You realize jaw is hanging open?” 

The man snapped his mouth shut and then opened it again just as quickly. “Fine, then. How do you know I take the jobs no one else wants?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re here, aren’t you? “

“Impressive.”

Sherlock blinked. “Really?”

“Yes. Don’t know why you didn’t turn that brain on your skunk of a boyfriend, not that it’s any of my business—“

“It’s not,” Sherlock cut in. “And he’s not—my Alpha.”

The man—Lestrade, according to his ID—was clearly skeptical. “You’re obviously bonded, mate. But he’s not your Alpha?”

“I’m in no condition to have that conversation,” Sherlock snapped. “Look at me. I’ve been beaten to within an inch of my life. I should rest.”

A half-smile played upon his companion’s face. “You’re talking enough, for all that.” 

“Why are you here?” Sherlock demanded. “Not for a statement. If I know anything about the justice system in this country, then this little tussle has already been swept under the rug.” 

The smile slipped off the man’s face as quickly as it had come and he gave a short nod of acknowledgment. “They wouldn’t look at it twice. But you’re smart enough to know that, aren’t you?”

“So why are you here? Your sense of justice can hardly do me any good—“ 

“Look, kid,” the cop interrupted. “I’ve seen my fair share of bad relationships, all right? And just—he beat you up this time. It won’t get any better, you know? Don’t go fooling yourself.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Thank you. I’m not an idiot.”

Lestrade met his eyes at that, his face tragically hopeful. “You won’t go back to him then?”

 _Oh for god’s sakes_. “Are you going back to your wife?”

“It’s not the same—“ 

Sherlock decided to put him out of his misery. “No. I won’t.”

Lestrade relaxed back into his chair. “Well. Good, then.”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock agreed. But the man wasn’t done. 

“I’d put the lot of them in jail, I would,” he said, a touch defensively. “If I could. But it’s not my job and I can’t and the bastards run amok.”

“Humph.” Sherlock lay back, his eyes drifting closed with whatever cocktail they’d pumped him full of. Morphine, possibly.

“Yeah,” Lestrade said. “Better sleep.”

And you’d better go, Sherlock thought, but never got a chance to say. 

 

\-----

He did go, but he came back, a few days later and hovered in the doorway until Sherlock waved him in.

“You have something to say, Officer--”

“The name’s Gregory Lestrade. Call me Greg.”

“I _know_.”

“You had a child,” Greg said bluntly.

“Very good. Found my records, did you?”

“No. I was just thinking about it, talking to you and--Stretch marks.”

“Stretch—oh.” Sherlock took in the faint lines running down the lower half of his bared abdomen and raised an eyebrow. “Surprisingly well-observed.”

“Well, I am a police officer, you know.”

“Like I said—surprising.” 

The officer didn’t grin, not today. 

“Where’s the tyke?”

“Not with me.” Sherlock’s eyes widened with realization. “Oh. Oh, I see. No, he’s not—that Alpha’s not his father and the child doesn’t live with me. Hamish is with my mother. He’s quite—safe. I heard him on the phone just this morning.”

The tension leaked out of the officer’s shoulders. “Oh. Good. Well. Sad. But also good.”

“You came to ask about that,” Sherlock said, a bit amazed. “Just that.”

“Well, I figured—no one was going to look and it’s not like someone would have said something, if that abusive bastard took the kid. You just never know—“

“Thank you,” Sherlock cut in.

“An’ I was a bit overreaching my job, I know—Really?”

“Yes.” Sherlock swallowed. “Of course, thank you. For checking.” 

The officer eyed him speculatively. “You’re not such a git.”

“Well, let’s not make any snap-judgments.”

“Sorry. I was just thinkin’ you’d run off and left the kid to have some sort of druggie fun but that’s not—“ He cut himself off, chagrined. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that either. But you know how it looks.”

Sherlock knew perfectly well how it looked, but it didn’t prevent him from bristling. “I am the child’s _mother_ and horrid as I may be at the job, I would never, ever, allow him to be in any situation where he was in danger—and if I was given any choice in the matter, nor would I allow myself to be separated from him. Never---” 

He was conscious, abruptly, that he’d said too much. The officer was looking at him with a sort of dreadful compassion in his eyes, unbearable, really--

“Well,” the man said, shifting. “Look, kid, you need anything—I’ll be there. My name’s—“

“Do try not to endlessly repeat yourself _Geoff Lestrade_.”

“Oye, it’s—never mind. Close enough. Um, I’d better—“

Sherlock didn’t want him to leave, not just yet. His mind was deteriorating with boredom and no doubt that was the only reason that he thought Lestrade was not such bad company. 

“You never told me,” Sherlock blurted out. 

Lestrade turned around. “Told you what, then?”

“Why you’re here.”

“Oh. That.” Lestrade looked uncomfortable again. “Let’s just say—because I care, all right?”

Sherlock couldn’t quite bring himself to snort at that. “Sentiment.”

Lestrade shrugged as he headed out the doorway. “Sure.”

“It’s why you’ll never get promoted,” Sherlock called after his retreating back.

He was treated to a half-turn accompanied by a brief eye-roll. “Don’t I know it. Look kid, I’ve got to get to work. There’s a hell of a case down in Hampstead and everyone’s half mad over it—“

“The one about the bridegroom who disappeared into thin air?”

The officer paused. “Yeah. That one. Been reading the papers?”

“It’s something to do.” Sherlock bit his lip. “Look, about that case—“

“Yeah?”

“The step-father. He knows where the bridegroom is.”

“You can’t—“

“I can.” Sherlock met Lestrade’s eyes defiantly. “Let’s say the stepfather and the bridegroom are quite—close. You’d do well to question him thoroughly.”

Lestrade opened his mouth as if to say something, thought better of it and shrugged again. “Right. Sure. Why the hell not?” 

 

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd apologize for how late these are, but at this point, we're just trucking it to the end, however slowly. Doing my best, thanks for all the encouragement and hanging in there with me!


End file.
